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Sco 79o 

V. I 








His brow was sad, his eye beneath 
Flashed like a faulchion from its sheath, 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue, 

Excelsior !" Longfellow. 


VOL. I. 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 

in 2010 with funding from 

University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 





It was long past midnight, and the bright 
lights had one by one disappeared from 
^^- within the rooms of the different colleges 
in Oxford. Even from those where 
thoughtless amusement and dissipation 
had been protracted far into the night, but 
a faint flickering gleam was still seen, and 
occasionally a dark figure passed slowly 
between it and the casement, in one of the 
quadrangles of Oriel College. Tliis dark, 
tall figure was that of Henry Seville, a 
junior fellow of that college, and curate of 
one of the parish churches in the city, who 

VOL. I. B 



was anxiously keeping watch in the sick 
room of his young friend Eustace Grey. 
Long and dangerous had been his illness, 
and for many a day and night, nothing 
had been heard from the sufferer's hps but 
the incoherent ravings of delirium ; as he 
alternately gave utterance to feelings of 
the deepest contrition for the past, or in 
imagination seemed to hold converse with 
one, whom he sometimes addressed as the 
playfellow of his boyhood, at others as the 
future companion of his life ; and who, in 
the one form or other, appeared to be always 
(to his imagination) hovering about his 
bed. These feverish delusions had, how- 
ever, now nearly left him, and he had gra- 
dually sunk into that calm repose of both 
mind and body which indicates approach- 
ing recovery. 

It was, however, but very slowly that 
Eustace Grrey regained his strength or 
spirits, and many weeks elapsed before he 
was able to resume his reading and usual 
habits of college life ; and when he did 


again appear in Hall and at Lectures, 
"How sadly poor Grey is altered!" was 
the exclamation of all liis friends on be- 
holding him. 

" His gay spirits seem to be all gone — 
Neville has infected him, and made him as 
serious as himself (according to his own 
cant phraseology) ; and it is such a pity !— 
he was so pleasant ! — so full of fun ! — up 
to an}i:hing ! and now one hears of nothing 
but his ' thankfulness to heaven for his re- 
recoveryl of his ' hopes that he may make 
a better use of life if spared' and all that 
sort of canting stuff and nonsense ; all, of 
course, put into his head by that purita- 
nical prig Neville ! It is really quite melan- 
choly to see any one so changed." 

" Why the d— 1 could not Neville let 
poor Grrey alone ? — he was surely good 
enough for any one and anything, and it 
is clear he is now done for ; when once that 
serious disease attacks a man, it is all over 
with him, and Grey is not one to do any- 
thing by halves : he mil be shutting him- 



self up with liis piety and penitence till 
there will be no living: with him ! — such a 
pity ! — such a capital fellow !" 

Such were the lamentations poured forth 
b}^ his former associates over their late 
light-hearted companion, Eustace Grey. 
And they were right as to the change 
which they observed in him, for he was in 
truth an altered man ! — I^ot that his 3^outh 
had ever been disgraced by actual vice ; 
from that pollution he had been preserved, 
not so much, perhaps, by principle, as by 
circumstances, and by a refinement of taste 
and feeling natm\al to him, which made 
him shrink with disgust from profligacy of 
every sort ; but being peculiarly popular 
at college, and blessed with health and 
spirits, he had hitherto been gay with the 
gay, and thoughtless with the thoughtless ; 
and although destined for holy orders, he 
had, it must be confessed, engaged in that 
hne of life (marked out for him by circum- 
stances, and others, rather than chosen by 
himself from rehgious feeling) with very 


little or no serious sense of the importance 
of tlie sacred duties to which it called him ; 
looking, in short, upon the ministry more 
in the light of an, gentlemanlike way of 
securing to himself an establishment and 
occupation in life, than as a solemn call to 
entire devotion of heart and every feeling 
of his soul, in short, of his whole ex- 
istence, to the service of his Maker ; and 
his engaging manners, and peculiarly 
agreeable social qualities, had helped to 
draw him into habits of life and society 
perhaps not strictly clerical ! 

Such had been Eustace Grey, when a 
sudden, violent, and long-protracted illness, 
during which he hung for weeks between 
life and death, at once arrested him in his 
thoughtless career, and by separating him 
for lono: from all his former associates, 
threw him entirely into the hands of that 
Henry Neville, whose influence over him 
Eustace's more worldly friends so much 
deplored ! 

Neville was considerably older than 


Grey, of peculiarly reserved manners and 
grave turn of mind, owing partly to trials 
and difficulties in early life, and since to 
the most exalted piety, wliicli, by reducing 
this world's enjoyments to their real value, 
had ended by weaning him entirely from 
them; so that it might truly be said of 
]S'e^411e, that his fii'st and only object in 
illis hfe w^as the next. This was at least 
the case so far as his own existence was 
concerned. But no one could enter more 
warmly into the interests, even the worldly 
interests, of others ; and strict as he was to 
himself, no one looked with more indul- 
gence upon the faults and failings of his 
fellow- creatures, or made greater allowance 
for those pecuhar temptations to which 
youth is exposed. His position, as fellow 
of the college to which Eustace Grey be- 
longed, gave him many opportunities for 
exerting an influence for good over the 
undergraduates, such as no parish priest 
can possess at the University, unless he is 
also resident in college ; and there was 


sometliing so especially attractive in 
Eustace Grey, that from the time of his 
first coming to Oxford, Neville had felt 
strangely drawn towards him. No two 
beings certainly could be, to all apj^ear- 
ances, less congenial than the bright young 
undergraduate and the grave taciturn 
fellow : but there exists a sort of free- 
masomy in the human character ; heart ac- 
knowledges heart by some secret recogni- 
tion not to be detected by those who are 
not initiated in the mystery, and when to 
all external appearance such sympathy is 
entirely wanting. 

Long, frequent, and most interesting 
were the conversations which, since Eus- 
tace's illness, had taken place between him 
and his " Father Confessor " (as Eustace 
styled his friend Neville), and which 
invariably left the former strengthened in 
mind and principle, feeling as if a new 
existence was opened before him ; new 
interests, new principles of action, new 
objects in life, of which he had never 


before dreamt, were now presented to his 
mind, and he indulged in even the most 
romantic dreams of future usefulness in, 
and devotion to, the cause to which he 
was before long to pledge himself. 

One day, after one of those (to both) 
most interesting discussions relative to 
Eustace's futm-e prospects in life, he gra- 
dually became abstracted, and for a time 
both he and his friend were silent. At 
length Eustace seemed to make an effort 
to speak, and while his now habitually 
pale face became crimson — 

" Mr. Neville," said he, '' you must be 
my father confessor in reality ; for I have 
a confession to make to you. I am quite 
in earnest," he added hastily, obser^'ing a 
smile to pass over his friend's face ; " and 
I must not let you think more highly of 
me than I deserve. I fear I am not the 
devoted servant of our comm.on Master 
which you appear to consider me ; I have 
other interests, other feelings ; and per- 
haps they are too strong, too engrossing : 


in sliort, I fear I may not be equal to tlie 
exalted duties to which the profession I 
have undertaken calls me, and that this 
world's affections have too strong a hold 
upon me." 

Mr. Neville did not immediately reply. 
An unusually dark cloud gathered on his 
countenance, and without even raising his 
eyes towards his young friend, he merely 
said, as if speaking to himself, " Ah, I 
feared so it was !" 

'' Feared V repeated Eustace, hastily, 
" whj feared?'' 

" Because, as you have yourself just 
said, it will be more difficult for you to do 
your duty, more difficult for you to resist 
the deceits and temptations of the world, 
the flesh, and the devil." 

"But surely," rejoined Eustace, in a 
dejected tone, " we find nothing in the 
word of Grod forbidding those who enter 
the sacred ministry taking to themselves 
helpmates ! some of the apostles even, 
were, we know, married men. I am not 


going to be a monk, or a Eoman CathoKc 
priest; and a Protestant country clergyman 
positively requires a helpmate, an assistant 
in tlie discharge of liis parochial duties." 

" Yes, perhaps," replied JSTeyille, " if 
she is a ' helpmate ' indeed. If she is 
meet, fit to help him ; if she enters heart 
and soul into the work; but how few 
3^oung women are thus qualified ! with 
most of them their frivolous worldly edu- 
cation fits them for nothing but this 
world and its pastimes. They, too, should 
(in some degree, at least) be, like their 
husbands, moved by the ' holy Spirit ' of 
God to their vocation in life. And even 
then, I should advise a young man en- 
gaging in holy orders to attend to the 
advice of St. Paul. You remember what 
he says on the subject of marriage : ' I 
would have you without carefulness : he 
that is unmarried caretli for the things 
that belong to the Lord, how he may 
please the Lord ; but he that is married 
careth for the things that are of the 


world, liow he may please Hs wife.' At 
ordination we take, you know, a solemn 
oath to devote om'selves, om- hearts, and 
Hves to the sacred cause we undertake, 
and we profess to be moved thereto by 
the Holv Ghost : now if that heart, that 
life, instead of being given to the Creator, 
is devoted to the creature, our vow is 
broken, and we are forsworn."' 

Eustace said nothing; his face was 
averted, but liis fi'iend saw plainly the 
pain he was inflicting, and it touched his 
kind heart. After a moment's pause he 
resumed — "'•' Much, however, of course, 
depends on a proper selection of this help- 
mate. She raay lead to much evil, but 
also she raay, I will allow, possibly lead to 
good ; but even at the best, I must con- 
fess I consider marriage to be a great trial 
of a young man's steadiness to his paro- 
chial duties. Home interests are so 
strong, so engrossing I a wife's influence 
so overpowering ! however, I will concede 
so far as to allow that the advisabihty of 


matrimony for a young clergyman depends 
very much on the circumstances in which 
he is placed, though still more on the 
choice he makes. 

"It is therefore, so very important a 
choice, it must not be made without much 
deliberation and much prayer for divine 
direction. Indeed, I would not advise 
any young man taking orders (under any, 
even the most favourable auspices) to 
think of marriage, until he has tried, and 
is quite sure of himself ; till his clerical 
habits of life are quite established; till 
they engross his mind and heart ! 

" Then, but not till then, I will allow 
him," IS^eville added with a smile, '' to 
look out for one who will really be a help- 
mate by assisting him in the work." 

Neville ceased speaking, but Eustace 
made no reply. His countenance had 
gradually become more and more over- 
cast, and tears even trembled in his eyes. 
Neville went up to him, and kindly lay- 
ino" his hand on his shoulder — " I am 


sorry if I liave pained you, Grey, but I 
cannot in conscience give you other ad- 
vice, and I know you will not be angry 
with me for speaking the truth." 

Still Eustace said nothing. 

" I feared this was the case," continued 
Neville. " During your illness, in your 
delirium you spoke constantly of her and 
to her by some nickname apparently, 
which I could not make out ; so your 
secret, if it is one, is safe enough with 
me." The blood rose to Eustace's face, 
and crimsoned even his forehead, and 
then as suddenly returning to his heart, 
left him ghastly pale. 

Neville continued — " But surely you 
cannot be actually engaged ? you are not 
yet three-and-twenty. You must take 
time, my young friend, and much thought ; 
this is but a mere boyish fancy, such as 
we all have to encounter, and which will 
pass off. You must seek much divine 
guidance before you venture upon so im- 
portant a step as the choice of a partner for 


life, one wliicli will affect, not only your 
happiness here, but your soul's happiness 
in eternity ! You must wait, indeed you 
must," added Ne\dlle, kindly pressing the 
passive hand of Eustace ; '' you must wait, 
and God will direct you." 

Neville's hand was not pressed in re- 
turn; but after a pause, during which 
Eustace seemed to be almost struggling 
for breath, he said in a voice scarcely 
audible, " We are engaged ! / am irre- 
vocably engaged !" 

" Irrevocably engaged ?" repeated Ne- 

*' Yes, and in a manner even from our 
childhood !" 

Again both were silent. But after a 
minute or two, Neville continued, " I do 
not ask who she is, but may I ask what 
she is ? Is she a child of God?" Again 
there was a pause, when Eustace at last 
stammered out, " I believe so — I hope so — 
I fear I never thought, never inquired ! 
I ! — I LOVED HER — passiouately loved 


her!" His voice liad become more and 
more inaudible at each of these humiliating 
confessions, until, unable any longer to 
command himself, he burst into tears. 
^NFeville stood irresolute — he knew not 
what to do ; but at length, thinking it best 
at that moment to leave his young friend 
to himself, he moved towards the door. 

Before opening it, however, he once 
more turned and looked at Eustace. He 
had buried his face in his hands, breathing 
almost convulsively. 

Neville's kind heart smote him for the 
pain he had inflicted, and again he re- 
turned to his friend's side. " Forgive me, 
dear Grey," he said. " I know I have no 
right to interfere, even to advise, in such 
a case. If I have spoken my mind too 
freely, if I have said things hard for young 
flesh and blood to bear, I can only 
plead in excuse the anxious interest with 
which you have inspired me, and" (he 
added, with a smile) " I feel it to be my 
duty, in my character of your Father 


Confessor, to give you all this unpalat- 
able acMce." Again NeviUe pressed the 
hand of Eustace, but the kind smile 
which beamed on Neville's face was not 
seen — the kind pressure of his hand was 
again not returned, and Neville left the 

The friends did not for some time meet 
again, except by chance in Clirist Church 
Avenues or in the streets ; they then ac- 
knowledged each other in their usual man- 
ner. At least, if there was any difference, 
it was only to be detected by themselves, 
and no allusion whatever was made by 
either to what had lately passed between 
them. But it was evident that Eustace 
avoided, rather than sought, the renewal 
of those confidential tete-a-tetes, which 
had before been so delightful to him. He 
had httle or no intercourse either with his 
former associates. Under the pretext of 
having lost so much time by his late ill- 
ness, and the necessity of reading harder 
than ever, he kept entirely in his own 


rooms. His gay friends frequently rallied 
liini on the change which had taken place 
in him, and even ventured on jokes and 
sarcasms directed against his " spiiitual 
adviser," as they styled Xeville. But 
Eustace took no notice of these inuendos, 
nor of their pretended apologies for break- 
ing through the hounds of due gravity, 
and offending his serious ears with their 
levity, when carried away by the thought- 
less gaiety of youth, they broke forth into 
those shouts of hilarity, in which the joy- 
ous laugh of Eustace Grrey used to be 
heard even above the rest. 

It was not that Eustace icouldnoi, but 
that he could not now join in their exube- 
rance of spirits. He longed to be happy 
as in former days ; he longed again to feel 
thus hght-hearted, but he could not. Con- 
science had been awakened within him ; 
he was aware how grievously he had 
sinned, even more than his friend Xeville 
was in the least aware of. His mind was 
also ill at ease with res^ard to that kind 

VOL. I. C 


friend. He was sensible of the estrange- 
ment wliich had taken place between them 
since their last conversation relative to his 
futm-e prospects, and he was forced to 
acknowledge to himself that he was the 
one in fault. And yet, earnestly as he 
desired to return to their former intimate 
confidential intercourse, he knew not how 
to bring that about. It is so difiicult to 
break down those barriers which pride 
builds up between ourselves and even our 
best-loved friends, in a moment of irrita- 
tion and wounded feelings. Eustace could 
not but acknowledge that Neville was 
right in all that he had said, that even 
common sense, independent of higher prin- 
ciples, bade him attend to his friend's 
advice ; but he also felt he could not, that 
he had not sufficient courage to act upon 
it, and to give up all those dreams of 
earthly felicity in which he had so long 
indulged. And thus, self-condemned and 
unhappy in every way, he became more 
and more taciturn and abstracted. 


It was Neville who at last, no longer 
able to endure the distant and altered 
footing upon which he and his young 
friend now were, resolved on seeking liini 
in his own rooms, determined on bringing 
him to some explanation. 

On opening the door, he saw that 
Eustace was deeply engaged, not with one 
of his Latin fohos, but with a letter which 
he held in his hand ; which, however, 
from its crumpled appearance, had evi- 
dently been read many a time before, and 
which, on Neville's entrance, was hastily 
crushed into the writing-desk on the table 
before him. NeviUe went straight up to 
him. " Grrey," said he, with his wonted 
open kindliness of manner, " you are not 
well, I am sure ; you have dismissed the 
doctor too soon, and you are not happy. 
Do not let what passed between us lately 
keep us estranged from each other. I 
may have spoken too sternly to you; I 
may have administered stronger moral 
medicine than you were then able to bear ; 

c 2 


but do not dismiss your physician because 
at first, not being quite aware of the very 
serious nature of your complaint, lie, in 
his ignorance, prescribed a wrong, that is, 
too severe a treatment. Let us be friends 
again," continued Neville, as he held out 
his hand to Eustace ; " try me again, and 
see whether, now that I am better ac- 
quainted with your case, I cannot pre- 
scribe for it better." 

For a moment Eustace stood as if ir- 
resolute what to do, but, after an apparent 
struggle with himself, he grasped his 
friend's hand between both of his, stammer- 
ing out, " Oh, how little do I deserve this 
kindness ! can you forgive my late odious 
conduct ? will you let me again look to 
you as my Father Confessor ? Scold me, 
preach to me as you will, I will bear all ! 
I so need a confessor, an adviser, for 
indeed I am not happy ! I know not 
what to do, and I fear even you can't 
advise me ; no one can." 

As he spoke these last words, Eustace 


ha-stilj turned towards the writing-desk, 
and took from it the letter which he was 
reading when Xeville broke in so un- 
expectedly upon his soHtude. " Tliere, 
read this/' he said, as he held the letter 
towards Xeville (blushing crimson as he 
spoke). " It is from her. You will see 
what she says T\dth regard to my vocation, 
and I know well what you will say, that 
she is not a ' child of Grod,' that I must give 
lier up, or give up my duty to Grod ; but I 
cannot, I cannot give her up ; do not tell me 
that is required of me ; do not ask such a 
sacrifice. I would sooner, I fear, give up 
my intended profession (which, indeed, I 
am now aware I am not fit for), and look 
to one of less importance, less responsi- 
bihty ; but then," (as if speaking to him- 
self) " what should I have to ofier her ? 
Xothing ! Why did you open my eyes 
to the truth ? I was happy ia the igno- 
rance of my duty. I know that you will 
tell me to pray that I may be guided 
aright, and I desu'e to do so ; but I dare 


not ; I dread conscience bidding me act as 
I feel I cannot. All this is so new to me, 
I so little ever thought on the subject, I 
never at least viewed it in the Kght in 
wliich I do now. I only thought of my 
possible happiness in being, perhaps, some 
day united for life to one I so dearly love, 
whom I have so long loved, one so much 
to be loved, so amiable, so engaging, 
so — 

Here poor Eustace stopped ; for he felt 
that the enumeration of the attractions 
which this object of his adoration had for 
himself would weigh very little in her 
favour with his friend. He actually 
trembled with agitation. 

" Compose yourself," said Neville, 
kindly. " Let us talk quietly. What is 
it that has so agitated, so distressed you 
in this letter ?" 

" It is — because — there, you had better 
read it yourself,*' said Eustace, as, with 
a sudden effort and an unsteady hand, he 
held out the letter to Neville. " I am 


sure I cannot give a stronger proof of my 
confidence, for I know well beforehand " 
(he continued in a hurried, excited man- 
ner) " that you will condemn it. I know 
you will say that the writer cannot be a 
fit helpmate to one about to undertake 
such important duties as I am. Kot only 
to renounce the pomps and vanities, but 
even, according to your opinion, the com- 
mon innocent interests of this life, and 
devote himself entirely to his sacred 

Neville, without making any comment 
on these words, which were spoken with 
some asperity of tone and manner, was 
quietly unfolding the letter, when Eustace 
again seized upon it, and, passing his 
pencil hurriedly backwards and forwards 
over the signature, until it was no longer 
legible, he, with apparently a desperate 
resolution, again returned it to his friend, 
\\ithout uttering a word, and, sinking 
back in his chair, covered his face with 
his hands. The letter was as follows : — 


'' Rome, Feb. 4, 1828. 
" My dear Eustace, — I must not lose 
this post to tell you how very glad I was 
to hear a better account of you — that is 
to say, of your health ; for I own I am 
not equally satisfied with the state of your 
spirits ; nor, indeed, do I quite understand 
many things you say in your last letter. 
For instance : ' that you have not viewed 
the profession you are about to enter in a 
sufficiently serious light (by the way, I 
hate that Methodistical cant word serious). 
Now, I really cannot see that any such 
very peculiar solemnity in manner, hfe, and 
conversation is required of a clergyman, 
and I am sure I hope not ; for if you 
take up that line, you will not be half 
so agreeable a companion as you have 
hitherto been in your lay state. I think 
it is a great pity you should consider the 
profession in so melancholy a point of view. 
I have not the smallest fear but that you 
will discharge the ' important duties ' you 
talk of just as well as your neighbours — 


indeed, much better than most ; for, 
though it may be wrong to make you 
conceited, you must know that you have a 
decided talent for writing and composi- 
tion. I have heard papa often say, that 
no one can write better letters, and ex- 
press themselves more clearly, than you 
do ; therefore 3^ou need not take fright at 
the composition of your two sermons 
a-week (if that is what alarms you). So it 
really is all nonsense about your ' unworthi- 
ness' The real truth, I suspect, is that 
you have got into had company at Ox- 
ford (I mean into the over -good line), and 
that the friend you talk of has been 
putting all sorts of Methodistical notions 
into your head, and friglitening you. 
Pray, dear Eustace, don't take to those 
Evangelical opinions (as I believe they are 
called, for to own the truth, I really do 
not exactly understand what the word 
means), but whatever is new and over good 
you know papa has a perfect horror of; 
and I fear such notions are very much 


the fashion just now among a certain set 
at Oxford. But I will not lecture you 
any more, as I am quite sure it is merely 
your illness which, by lowering and weak- 
ening you, has affected your spirits ; so 
my advice is, that you amuse yourself 
in every possible way, get out of your 
invalid habits, and speedily return to 
your pleasant college companions. 

" I told you in my last that papa had 
been obliged to return home very unex- 
pectedly about some of his odious, eternal 
* business,' Imt we expect him back before 
very long. How pleasant it would be, if 
after your awful examination is over, you 
could take a run here with him, before 
you become too good for us ! — for I fear 
you will think we lead a sad, dissipated 
life here ; but it is impossible to help it, 
there is so much to see and to do, the 
rehgious ceremonies are all so amusing 
(perhaps I had better say interesting); 
then the pictures, and statues, and beauti- 
ful church-music, all so charming ! and 


besides, there is such agreeable society, 
dinners nearly every day, and such pleas- 
ant parties on horseback to see the neigh- 
bouring ruins, churches, aqueducts, and I 
don't know what all (very unHke our 
rides on the two old ponies at Elsmere) ; 
in short, we are never at rest. I am sure 
if we had you here, we should soon make 
you as wicked as ourselves, and get uj) 
your spirits to their usual pitch ! 

" Frederick is in Ireland with his regi- 
ment, flirting away with all the fascinating 
Irish beauties, and in love with half a 
dozen at a time apparently. I have, by- 
the-by, one very interesting piece of news 
to teU you, which I have kept for the 
bonne houclie (if you have not heard it 
already), that Mr. Woodford is so mor- 
tally ofiended and disgusted by all papa's 
rebufis and refusals to be made better by 
him, that he has announced the possibility, 
indeed almost the prohability, of his giving 
up his living at Elsmere next summer, 
having, I understand, the prospect of 


another, where, I presume, his apostolic 
merits are likely to be more appreciated. 
So it seems as if Elsmere would be ready 
for you by the time you are ready for it, 
by being duly inaugurated. This is very 
agreeable news for us all, for really Mr. 
Woodford was so disagreeable with his 
excessive troublesome piety, it was enough 
to sicken one of religion ; and if he had 
continued at Elsmere, I really beheve 
papa would have given up going to 
church altogether. IN'ow mind, Eustace, 
and don't grow too good, for that is what 
I own I am rather afraid of for you. 
" Your affectionate Cousin, 

[Signatm-e effaced]." 

Neville read this letter more than once, 
and then folding it up in the same com- 
posed, thoughtful manner in which he had 
opened it, he returned it to Eustace, who 
immediately replaced it in his writing- 
desk, and with such vehemence (betraying 
the irritated state of liis feehngs) that 


the spring, as it shut, actually resounded 
through the apartment. 

For a few seconds neither spoke ; but at 
length Eustace, unable apparently to bear 
the suspense any longer, eagerly said, 
" Well ! is she ? — is she ?" — " She is veri/ 
young — veri/ ignorant — very thoughtless," 
rephed Neville, in his gravest tone and 

'' And you condemn her unseen, un- 
heard !" exclaimed Eustace, the colour 
rising in his face as he spoke ; " and I 
suppose I am to think of her no more !" 

" I do not say that" replied Neville ; 
" I repeat it, she is evidently ve?y thought- 
less, very ignorant, but, as I have said, 
she is also ve?y young: her responsi- 
bility, as an immortal being, has evidently 
never been put before her, and she is con- 
sequently perfectly ignorant of her duties, 
and of yours also ; it will be your part to 
instruct her with regard to both, and 
much therefore will now depend upon 
yourself. If her affection for you is 


stronger than it is for the world, perhaps 
you may, witli God's blessing, find in her 
the help meet for you ; if not, I need not 
tell you what your decision must be if you 
would be a true servant of the Master 
into whose service you are about to enter 
— for you know we are decidedly told we 
' cannot serve two masters,' as we ' shall 
cleave to the one, and despise the other.' " 

A bright glow for a moment illumined 
Eustace's countenance. " You then still 
allow me to love and hope ! I have your 
2yer mission at least to hope the best !" he 
eagerly exclaimed. 

" It is not 7)17/ jiermissioii you must seek, 
Grey, but that of your own conscience. 
You surely know your dutj^, you must 
pray for strength to act up to it." 

There was for some time a dead silence, 
during which Eustace's agitation seemed 
every moment to increase, until (making 
apparently a great effort) he suddenly said, 
" I have not confessed all I" and he added, 
in a voice scarcely audible, '' Our engage- 


ment is not known — her parents are not 
aware !" Xeville actually started. 

" Am I then to understand," he said, 
with his sternest look and manner, " that 
there is a clandestine engagement? that 
you have taken advantage of the ignorance 
and inexperience of this poor, thoughtless 
young creature, to draw her into a forbid- 
den connection ? Oh, Grey ! how you have 
surprised and disappointed me ! how little 
should I have suspected you of such un- 
principled conduct ! And can you really 
think, besides, that any one who starts in 
life, thus acting in direct opposition to her 
duty as a daughter, as a Christian, can be 
a fit partner for him who is to teach 
to others their duty in every relation of 
hfe?" * 

" Say nothing against her !" exclaimed 
Eustace, with much warmth ; " that I can- 
not — will not bear ! She is goodness, in- 
nocence, truth itself; if any one is to 
blame, it is myself. But we are cousins ; 
we have loved each other from our very 


cliildhood — circumstances have so thrown 
US together." 

" That is no excuse for such derehction 
of duty ; on the contrary, you have proba- 
bly been guilty of a breach of trust, of 
confidence, " rejoined Neville sternly ; 
" you own to a clandestine engagement — 
that must not continue ; you must not 
enter the sacred ministry with falsehood 
in your heart." 

" Falsehood !" repeated Eustace, hastily 
rising from his seat, and anger flashing 
from his eyes. 

" Yes, I repeat it, falsehood, deceit ! if 
there is not something wrong in this en- 
gagement, why is it secret ? But we had 
better not talk any more on the subject 
at present, you are too much excited, and 
I will not quarrel with you, Grey ! When 
w^e are both more calm we mil, if you Hke, 
resume it ; but remember, as your friend 
(if you will let me still be that to you) I can 
but speak the truth, show you your duty ; 
you will follow it or not as you see fit." 


Neville stopped a moment at the door 
of the room, and then looking back, he 
added with much solemnity, " Eepent, 
therefore, of this thy wickedness, and pray 
Grod, if perchance the thought of thine 
heart may be forgiven thee," and with 
these words he left the apartment. 




Eustace Grey was the only child of a 
gentleman of most unobjectionable birth 
and connections ; the possessor of large 
property in the West Indies, and engaged 
in extensive mercantile concerns at home ; 
and by his own character (for probity, 
diligence, and ability), he stood so high, 
that while yet very young he had it in 
his power to be of the greatest use to a 
former schoolfellow and friend of the name 
of Lushington, also beginning life in the 
banking-house of Messrs. Lushington, 
Bradford, Strickland and Co., Fenchurch- 
street ; at one time even assisting him to 
a considerable amount when he (Lushing- 
ton) had got into pecuniary difficulties, 
and when such assistance was of the 


greatest importance to his character and 
credit ; in consequence of which the 
strictest friendship existed hetween these 
two young men, which in course of time 
was still more closely cemented by Grrey 
marrying the only sister of his friend 
Lushington ; of which marriage our young 
Oxonian Eustace was the sole issue. 
Thanks, very much, therefore, to the 
kind offices of his friend Grrey, and to 
that mysterious cause which we call luch — 
wliich seems sometimes in so extraordinary 
a manner to favour the eartlily career of 
some individuals, and as uniformly to 
overcloud that of others — "Lushington, 
from his first starting in life, prospered 
in his business even to an unprecedented 
degree, having (from beginning as a mere 
clerk in his grandfather's time) risen to 
be a partner in the house, and finally, on 
the death of his father, succeeded to his 
position as head of the firm ; while his 
brother-in-law, in consequence of a series 
of misfortunes and failures, over which he 


had no control, and the total ruin of his 
West Indian property, sank as rapidly 
in this world's prosperity, nntil, at length, 
a paral}4;ic stroke (the consequence of 
anxiety of mind, and while still compara- 
tively a young man) completed his mis- 
fortunes, and during the few remaining 
years of his Hfe, ]\Ir. Grey continued to he 
a helpless invalid, and at length died, 
leaving his widow and son (still a mere 
child) to the kindness — indeed, as it 
proved, to the charity — of his hrother- 
in-law. For on the arrangement of his 
affairs (which duty of course devolved on 
Mr. Lushington), there was found to be, 
after paying all unavoidable claims, little 
or nothing for the maintenance of his 
family. This was no agreeable discovery 
to one on whom the wddow and orphan 
were apparently ^ow thrown, and with 
whom money had become the " one thing 
needful ;" but as yet that dreadful de- 
votion to Mammon had not swallowed up 
all other and better feelings in Mr. Lush- 


ington's breast. A good name is also of 
use even in this our bad world ; so ]\Ir. 
Lushington made up bis mind to be a 
pattern brother and uncle (according, at 
least, to his otvtl ideas on the subject), as 
indeed he could well afford to be in a 
pecuniary point of view; for besides the 
flourishing state of the bank (in which he 
was now a partner), unlooked-for riches 
had poured in upon him. An uncle of 
the name of Elsmere, who early in life had 
gone to India, and of whom ]\Ir. Lush- 
ington had quite lost sight, died abroad, 
and in conformity with the invariable 
practice of adding wealth to wealth, he 
left him an enormous sum of money, 
under the condition that a certain portion 
of it should be laid out in the purchase of 
a specified estate in Hertfordshire ; and as, 
on making inquiries, Mr. Lushington 
found that very property to be then in 
the market, Mr. Elsmere had probably 
been informed of the likelihood of the 
circumstance just before his death (as 


that part of Ids will was in the form of a 
codicil, and dated not above a week before 
lie died). Wliat Mr. Elsmere's object 
was in this arrangement did not appear, 
but as the estate bore the same name as 
himself, it seemed probable it had formerly 
been in his family, and parted with at 
some time of pecuniary difficulty. Els- 
mere Manor was accordingly now re- 
purchased, and became the property of 
Mr. Lushington, as well as the right of 
presentation to a hving belonging to it, 
valued at about 600Z. a-year. 

In addition to this magnificent bequest 
to his nephew, Mr. Elsmere left 3,000/. 
to liis niece, Lucy Lusliington, now jMrs. 
Grrey, should she be still H^dng. 

This legacy was duly paid, and the 
amount was, by her desire, placed in the 
funds for the benefit of little Eustace 
when he should come of age ; Mr. Lush- 
ington, in the mean time, taking chai'ge 
of his education. More than that, and an 
allowance of 200/. a-year to his sister, he 


did not propose doing, for lie had now 
been married himself for several years, 
and was the father of two sons and a 
daughter, and he seemed to think that 
offering an asylum to his widowed sister 
under his own roof, would be quite a 
work of supererogation on his part. How 
strange it is that many who are mag- 
nificently liberal to public charities should 
so often act so differently towards their 
nearest relations ! Possibly the reason is, 
that it would be a bad precedent to es- 
tablish, as such objects of charity " we 
alicays Jiave with us;" yet are we not 
told " to provide for our oivn and especially 
for those of our own houseV 

But Mr. Lushington overlooked, or 
possibly had never read that text; and 
as Mrs. Grey's very limited income did 
not admit of her having a home of her 
own, she thankfully accepted of the offer 
of an invalid relation of her husband's, 
who lived in Devonshire, to reside with 
her, and taking^ a most sorrowful leave of 


little Eustace, she repaired to Torquay. 
Sad was the parting to the poor boy 
also, he never before having been sepa- 
rated from his mother ; sad was his com- 
mencement of school Hfe, and sad were 
even his first hohdays at Elsmere Manor. 
For liis two cousins, Frederick and Charles 
— disagreeable, rough-mannered boys, and 
some years older than himself — took no 
notice of him, except to bully and pro- 
voke him. However even this, their dis- 
agreeable, natural disposition (made worse 
by bad education), proved an advantage 
to Eustace Grey, as it gave him an oc- 
cupation, and consequently an interest in 
his life at Elsmere Manor ; for they also 
bulhed and teased their sister Lucy, al- 
though it might have been expected that, 
as an only sister, and by several years 
their junior, she would, on the contrary, 
have been to them an object of peculiar 
care and tenderness. It was thus that 
Lucy Lushington and Eustace Grey had 
been (as he said), from their verv child- 


hood, in an especial manner thrown to- 
gether; for being by nature of a gene- 
rous, chivah'ous disposition, he at once 
became his little cousin's established 
champion, defending her from the con- 
stant teasing tyranny of her brothers, 
and the sure friend to whom, on all occa- 
sions, she could apply for sympathy and 

Time flew on — and Frederick and 
Charles Lushington had reached that 
age when their future destination in hfe 
had to be chosen, and their consequent 
respective lines of study fixed upon. 

Mr. Lushington had always in his own 
mind settled that his eldest son should 
follow his own vocation, and in course of 
time succeed him in the banking-house; 
and although never hitherto naming his 
intentions to the object of them, he had 
ever kept that destination for him in view 
in Frederick's course of education. But 
when Mr. Lushington at length made 
known his intentions to his son, he, to his 


utter astonishment, met witli the most 
decided and violent opposition ; for having 
always enjoyed the advantages of wealth, 
without any trouble on his part, and 
having already a decided taste for the^n^ 
world and doing nothing (the lafcter being 
indeed the only object in life for which he 
had as yet shown any ambition), Frederick 
would not listen to his father's plans, and 
remained obstinately fixed in his determi- 
nation (long formed, apparently) of being 
a fine gentleman, and an idle man of the 
world. In other words, of wearing some 
becoming mihtary dress, and making his 
way into the Gruards and fashionable so- 
ciety of London. 

This decided opposition to his wishes 
was a bitter disappointment to Mr. Lush- 
ington. His mind had now for so long 
been so entirely engrossed by money spe- 
culations, he had grown to think the ac- 
cumulation of wealth to be the one thing 
needful ; and thoroughly despising the fine 
world of London as much as his son wor- 


shipped it, he could in no way enter into 
the glories of fashionable idleness. 

Frederick's refusal to follow his own 
footsteps in life had also come upon him 
most unexpectedly ; he had never even 
thought of the possibility of being thus 
thwarted in his views by his own cliildren. 
He had, as we see, been so far occupied 
about them, as to make plans for their 
future career in this world; but he had 
never in the meantime sought their con- 
fidence, or been at the trouble to be ac- 
quainted with their characters, and, in 
consequence, he had no power whatever 
over their minds or dispositions ; and self- 
willed as Mr. Lushington was in many 
ways himself, Frederick was still more so. 
After many disagreeable and indeed im- 
proper altercations between the father and 
son, the former found it necessary to give 
way, and a commission in the 7th Hussars 
was finally purchased for Frederick. 

Mr. Lushington was by birth, educa- 
tion, and manners quite what is termed a 


gentleman ; but the horrid trade in which 
he was engaged — that of money-making — 
had by degrees hardened and even vulgar- 
ized both his mind and feelings, and in 
consequence he had no idea of that species 
of ambition which aims at benefiting our 
fellow-creatures, at usefulness in our gene- 
ration, at serving our country ! His own 
object in hfe having been entirely con- 
fined to mere money speculations, he had, 
of course, never inspired his sons ^^ith any 
more Hberal feelings, or more elevated 
principles of action ; and in consequence 
they, too, thought only of self-interest in 
their future careers, although differing in 
their objects according to the natural bias 
of their characters. 

AVlien Mr. Lushington was thus dis- 
appointed in his long-cherished schemes 
for his eldest son, he turned to the second, 
Charles, hoping to succeed better with 
liim, and thinking he would gladly give 
up the Chm'ch (sure as he thought he was 
of preferment in it) for the much more ad- 


vantageous prospects which the banking- 
house offered. But in this ag^ain Mr. 
Lushington was disappointed, — meeting 
with the same decided opposition to his 
wishes from Charles as he had from 
Frederick, although from totally different 
views and motives. 

Charles cared as little for the fine world 
of fashion as his father did, but he cared 
excessively for his own ease, and for having 
his own way ; and being of a sedentary 
studious turn, he remained fixed in his 
preference for the ministry, looking to 
the probability of obtaining the Hving 
of Elsmere by the time he was fitted to 
hold it ; for the present incumbent had 
every prospect of better preferment, being 
of the party in the church which at that 
period was beginning to attract attention, 
and seemed likely to have the prepon- 
derance. Charles, therefore, at once re- 
jected his father's proposal respecting the 
banking-house, and requested he might 
immediately commence liis studies at Ox- 
ford in preparation for taking orders. 


It is to be feared lie was influenced in 
this his decision, less by that Divine Spirit 
which, when it actuates the true servant 
of God, renders the vocation of a clergy- 
man the most exalted of any upon earth, 
than by mere self-indulgence. For he 
mistook, or rather had never realized in 
his mind, or turned his thoughts to the 
many duties and responsibilities of the 
ministry ; duties which, if duly discharged, 
makes the life of a parish priest certainly 
anything but one of indolence and idle- 
ness. It was long before Mr. Lushington 
could become reconciled to the decision of 
his two sons respecting their future pro- 
fessions, and the disappointment which 
their refusal to comply with his wishes 
occasioned, soured his temper and in- 
creased the natural cold reserve of his 
character ; but, strange to say, it did not 
turn his mind towards any higher objects 
of ambition. He still worshipped his 
golden divinity with the same indefati- 
gable devotion, and continued to labour 
early and late with the hope of adding to 


his "Worldly store, although with appa- 
rently no better prospect now before him 
than of its being squandered in folly by 
his careless, idle heir. 

We must now turn to the two other 
individuals composing Mr. Lushington s 
family — his daughter Lucy and Eustace 

The latter, although some years younger 
than his cousins, was also now no longer 
a boy, and had been for some time placed 
by his uncle (without any choice on the 
subject being given him) in one of the 
hard-working lower departments of his 
banking-house ; Mr. Lushington thinking 
he had fully discharged his duty to his 
deceased friend and widowed sister, in 
thus putting it in the power of their son, 
by industry and application, and by " eat- 
ing early and late the bread of careful- 
ness," to work his own way in the world, 
as he had done before him. 

It was not an existence at all congenial 
with the character and turn of mind of 


Eustace Grey ; but of such considerations 
Mr. Lusliington took no cognizance ; and 
how much Eustace liked or dishked his 
vocation his uncle neither inquired nor 
cared. Nor did he apparently care either 
that during those years that Eustace had 
been at Elsmere Manor, both while a 
schoolboy and since, during his occasional 
relaxations from irksome toil at his desk, 
a degree of affection had been formed be- 
tween him and his cousin, which, if not 
actually what is called love, was some- 
thing very near akin to it, at least on his 
side. Each time they met their meeting 
was the more agreeable to them ; each 
time they parted, the parting the more 
painful. And each time also that poor 
Eustace returned to his hated drudgery in 
his dismal, dark back room at the bank- 
ing-house, the more he abhorred liis em- 
ployment, and the more he lamented 
over his dependent situation, and his 
separation from his cousin and playfellow, 


This, liis cousin, had in the mean time 
been receiving such an education as girls 
receive who are left to the care and 
management of a mother of very moderate 
understanding, and very z7?zmoderate love 
of this world, and whose mind had in no 
way been raised by religious principle. 
When Mrs. Lushington had secured a 
governess for her daughter who could 
speak French, ItaHan, and German hke 
any foreigner (and had finished Lady 
Somebody's daughter), and when she had 
succeeded in securing for her two hours 
a-week tuition from the same masters 
that gave lessons in drawing, music, and 
dancing to Lady Something else's chil- 
dren, she thought that she had done all 
that was necessary for poor Lucy's well- 
doing in this world and the next ! Lucy 
was, of com'se, taken regularly to church 
on a Sunday morning in her best bonnet 
and cloak (for so was Lady Somebody's 
daughter, as Ma'amselle said). She also 
learnt her catechism and the collects by 

VOL. I. E 


heart, and occasionally read a good book 
on a wet Sunday afternoon, when she 
could not get out ; and, in short, was 
supposed to be as good a Christian as her 
neighbours ; and (alas !) perhaps so she 
was ! at least as good as many ; for it 
must be remembered that Lucy's educa- 
tion had been carried on full thirty years 
before our time, and religion was not then 
as much the fashion (if we may so speak), 
nor education as much thought of as it is 

And this poor ignorant, superficial being 
was she of whom Neville had inquired, 
whether she was " a child of God !" 

No wonder Eustace had not the face to 
say more than, " he hoped so !" 

Nature, however, had done more for 
Lucy Lushington than education, so far 
at least as bestowing upon her an amiable, 
gentle, loving disposition. But Nature, 
even at its very best, without principle, is 
but a weak, uncertain thing to trust to, 
and will not alone stand the wear and 


tear of life, with all its many trials and 

Sucli was the state of things at Elsmere 
Manor, when Mr. Lnshington was sud- 
denly summoned to Oxford, in consequence 
of the alarming illness of his son Charles. 
And this illness hefore long proved fatal ! 
It was mercifully overruled to the poor 
young man for good. He expressed the 
deepest contrition for many an offence of 
his past life; for his culpable selfishness 
in not having sufficiently considered his 
father's wishes with resrard to his choice 
of a profession, as well as in many an act 
of insubordination in his boyhood. But 
what seemed to weis^h the heaviest on his 
conscience, among his offences towards his 
fellow-creatures, was his want of kindness 
to his cousin Eustace (his jealousy, in 
short, of his superior talents). 

" I cannot now make him any repara- 
tion," said he, sorrowfull}'. " But tell him 
I hope for his forgiveness ; but indeed I 
feel sure of it ; for his is a generous, noble 

E 2 




nature ! And there is one good deed I 
still can (thank Grod !) perform for him. 
I can make you aware of what his grati- 
.tude to you for all you have done for him 
will never allow liim to confess himself. 
I can tell you that he detests the line of 
life in which he is placed." 

Mr. Lushington actually started, and 
his brow contracted with an expression of 
mingled surprise and anger. His son 
observed the expression, and seizing hold 
of his hand, " I am sorry to pain you in 
any way, dear father, but I have no time 
now to lose. I feel I must be quick ; and 
I must make all the reparation in my 
power to poor Eustace. I repeat it, he 
abhors his present existence ; and he is 
really too good for it." 

Again Mr. Lushington's countenance be- 
trayed his irritated feehngs. '' Too good?" 
he repeated, '' in what way ? What do 
you mean ?" 

'' I mean that he is above it ; that he has 
too superior a mind for such drudgery." 


]Mr. Lusliington was again about to 
reply, but his words were checked b}' 
observing the ghastly hue which had over- 
spread the young man's face. 

And after a pause Charles continued, 
altliough evidently painfully struggling 
with increasing^ breathlessness. " Make 
over to Eustace what your kindness had 
intended for me ; that living to which I 
was destined, and which will now be 
vacated — at all erents of no use to your 

" I can dispose of it," hastily inter- 
rupted Mr. Lushington ; and then, as if 
ashamed even of his own thoughts, at all 
events of having given vent to them, he 
stopped short. 

And Charles, not having apparently 
heard these words of his father, continued. 
" Eustace is much better fitted for that 
line of life than I am — than I ever should 
have been, I mean. His talents, his ami- 
able, gentle disposition ; his high prm- 
ciples of honour — of duty — ." Charles 
stopped ; he sank back on his pillow : but 


still he held his father's hand ; still he for 
some minutes looked wistfully with his 
glazing eyes in his father's face. 

" Well, I wiU think about it ah," said 
Mr. Lushington. " But there is time ; 
you will perhaps recover, and " 

These words of his father were scarcely 
uttered before Charles heaved a deep sigh, 
— all was over ! — and Mr. Lusliington 
gazed aghast on a lifeless corpse ! 

This blow, severe as it was on both 
parents, fell heaviest on the father. To 
him it was not only the loss of a child, 
but a second time the total overthrow of 
all his worldly hopes and ^^rojects. Per- 
haps (at the moment) the bitterest sorrow 
which Mr. Lushington had ever expe- 
rienced, was that which his eldest son in- 
flicted upon him, when he at once destroyed 
all his schemes, by refusing to follow his 
own career in life; but the pain of that 
disappointment had now, in some degree, 
subsided, and he had fixed his future 
hopes on Charles, at least on his children. 


— Charles had always been his favourite 
son, from his more quiet, steadier and less 
frivolous disposition than that of Frederick ; 
and although that very indolence had led 
him, contrary to Mr. Lushington's wishes, 
to adhere to the Church for his profession, 
still he was entirely free from the fashion- 
able folly and extravagance which so dis- 
gusted Mr. Lushington in his eldest son. 
Charles might marry, and he still enter- 
tained the hope that he should live to see 
Ids name continued in that house, which 
was the paramount object of his existence, 
and on which he seemed to think the very 
salvation of the world depended. But all 
these plans for the future were now at 
once destroyed ; and for the moment, the 
loss of this, his primary object in life, 
seemed actually to have stunned Mr. 
Lushington, and benumbed all liis faculties. 
Yet, strange to say, after a time, this 
bitter aflfliction, far from weaning him 
from this world and its interests, appeared 
only to increase his absorbing devotion to 


it; and what Mr. Liishington's friends 
had at first commiserated as the grief of a 
bereaved parent, now apparently changed 
into entire dedication of soul to the cause 
of Mammon. His attention to business 
became more and more engrossing, and 
his speculations more extensive and 
hazardous, like the gambler, who doubles 
his stake, the more desperate and hopeless 
his game. 



Charles's mortal remains were brought 
to Elsmere for interment, all ^Ir. Lush- 
ington's near relations assembling there 
on the mom-nful occasion, and Eustace 
Grey of course among them. The church 
(that church to which poor Charles had 
been destined, and of which it was decreed 
he should take possession only in his 
coffin) was so close to the manor-house, 
that there was not a sound of its bell 
which did not vibrate through all its 
apartments. Many, doubtless, might have 
felt its solemn sound sadly that day, but 
to Mr. Lushington they were not only 
sad, but irritating. The person now offi- 
ciating in the parish had become especially 
obnoxious to him, being of that (then new) 


party in the Church holding ultra high 
notions respecting clerical authority and 
discipline ; in consequence of which, Mr. 
Woodford had considered it to be his duty 
to give his advice, asked or unasked, on 
all such subjects to Mr. Lushington ; 
while the latter, retaining the very oppo- 
site old-fashioned notions, with regard to 
the footing upon which the squire and 
the parson of the parish should be, had no 
idea of submitting to such priestly juris- 
diction, and set his face most determi- 
nately against all these " new-fangled 
innovations," as he called them. 

On the very morning of the funeral 
(which was to take place in the afternoon, 
in order to give time for all to assemble) 
Mr. Woodford had mortally offended Mr. 
Lushington by proposing (and even with 
some degree of assumed authority) that the 
household should be previously collected 
for prayers and exhortation, in order that 
he might, in the character of ]\Ir. Lusliing- 
ton's domestic chaplain, duly prepare their 


minds for the solemn ceremony which 
was about to take place ; and in opening 
the matter to Mr. Lushington, Mr. Wood- 
ford (hoping thereby to make all easy) 
had rather injudiciously written to him 
to say, that he had already mentioned the 
subject to the baihff, steward, and house- 
keeper, and that they seemed thankful for 
the proposal, and were quite sure the ser- 
vants would all gladly attend the sum- 
mons. To account for the deg^ree of dis- 
pleasure with which Mr. Lushington re- 
ceived this suggestion of Mr. AYoodford's, 
it must be said, that daily service at 
church, and family prayers at home, had 
been constant bones of contention between 
the master of the house and the parish 
priest, ever since the former took posses- 
sion of the property. For wdth more zeal 
than judgment, Mr. "Woodford was for 
ever bringing that very unpopular mea- 
sure forward ; and when the daily prayers 
in church were rejected, he (as it was con- 
sidered rather officiously) volunteered his 


services every morning for family devotion 
at tlie manor-house, the parsonage not 
being five minutes' walk from thence ; but 
this proposal also was more than once 
most decidedly refused. Mr. Woodford, 
however, was not to be discouraged; he 
indeed thought it meritorious, and his 
positive duty even, to run the risk of 
drawing down displeasure on himself in 
so good a cause; and thinking this a 
most favourable opportunity for renewing 
the attack, when all would naturally be 
softened by afiliction, he returned to the 

" Troublesome, ofiicious fellow !" mut- 
tered Mr. Lushington to himself, as he 
entered the breakfast-room on the morning 
of the funeral, with a letter in his hand 
(Mrs. Lushington and a ]\Ir. AYatson, an 
old friend of the family, being the only 
persons then assembled). " Troublesome, 
ofl&cious, impertinent fellow !" he again 
repeated. " Here he is again at the old 
story ; but this cannot and shall not go on !" 


'' Who? What?" inquired Mr. Wat- 
son. " What's the matter?" 

Mr. Lushington related his grievance. 

" Humph !" said Mr. Watson ; and then, 
after a moment^ s pause, he added, after 
having read Mr. Woodford's note, " Well, 
I am not at all of this new High Church fac- 
tion ; but, in this case, I rather think Mr. 
Woodford is in the right. It is a good mo- 
ment for making an impression, and I be- 
lieve we all need that, for even the best of 
us require to be reminded of our latter end, 
of the awful account we shall be called 
upon (we know not how soon) to give in. 
I believe Mr. Woodford is in the right." 

" Surely," said Mrs. Lushington, " we 
are all of us nervous and dismal enough this 
morning, without being made more so by 
all this rehgion ; and I must say, I think 
it is very unfeeling of Mr. Woodford to 
take advantage of our distress to begin 
again upon that tiresome subject. I know 
this family devotion, as it is called, is quite 
the fashion just now ; but, for my part, I 


think it can lead to no good ; on the con- 
trary, it serves only to set the servants up, 
by making them think themselves of such 
vast consequence. Whj can't those who 
wish to be reho^ious, be so in then- own 
rooms, as formerly, without making such 
a fuss about it? At all events," added 
Mrs. Lushington, " I do not feel equal to 
anything of the kind this morning. You 
will settle it as you please, Mr. Lushing- 
ton ; but / will have nothing to do with 
it ; and, I repeat it, I think it very un- 
feeling of Mr. Woodford to think of pro- 
posing such a thing, when we are all in 
such affliction. And so saying, Mrs. 
Lushington, hastily swallowing the con- 
tents of her breakfast cup, left the 

Mr. Woodford's proposition was of course 
again and most peremptorily refused, and 
it is to be feared neither he nor Mr. Lush- 
ington Avere exactly in a state of mind that 
morning, suited to so solemn an occasion 
and ceremony. 


All the family, except Mrs. Liisliington, 
attended the funeral, and followed the coffin 
contakiing Charles' remains to the church. 
Eustace, (somehow) finding himself at 
Lucy's side on leaving the house. 

The poor girl was much affected ; she 
had never been at a funeral before, and the 
feelings excited by the solemn service, were 
new and overpowering to her — perhaps it 
was rather nervous emotion, than actual 
sorrow for the deceased which caused her 
to weep so bitterly; for, in truth, her 
brother, who had never sous^ht to win her 
afiections, could not possibly be deeply re- 
gretted by her ; but it is a hard heart wliich 
is not moved when following the bier of 
one with whom the first years of life have 
been spent, and who seemed to make a 
part of the self-same existence, even al- 
though in no way adding to its enjoyment. 
At all events, whatever it was that agitated 
Lucy, Eustace could not bear to see her 
tears, and drawing her arm within his, 
while he tenderly pressed her passive hand. 


"All his sufferings are now over/' he 
whispered, as he bent down his head, until 
his cheek touched her black crape veil, — 
" he is happy now : and think of those 
beautiful words, 'Blessed are the dead 
which die in the Lord, for they rest from 
their labours, and their good works do 
follow them.' " Poor Eustace quoted 
these heaven-inspired words in Lucy's ear, 
wishing to say something to soothe her 
agitation, although it must be confessed he 
did not at the moment feel them to be 
particularly appropriate to the occasion, for 
had he been asked what had been the 
" labours" from which poor Charles was to 
" rest," or the " good works" which were 
to " follow" him into another world, he 
could not very well have told. — He did 
not even then know, that, with his last 
breath, Charles had performed a ''good 
work'' towards himself! 

At all events, however, Eustace's inten- 
tion was good, and it had the desired 
effect. Lucy returned the pressure of his 


hand in gratitude for his kindly-intended 
words of comfort, and was more composed 
during the remainder of the service. 

All the friends and connections who had 
attended the funeral, left Elsmere as soon 
as the ceremony was over, except Mr. 
Watson and Eustace Grey. The former 
was an old particular friend of Mr. Lush- 
ington (although their dispositions were 
very dissimilar). He Hved chiefly in 
London, being one of the magistrates of 
that city. As he and Mr. Lushington, on 
the morning after the ceremony, paced up 
and down the terrace-walk below the house, 
the former suddenly said, '^Wliat a nice 
young fellow that nephew of yours is ! I 
remember his mother, when she was much 
such a young thing as your Lucy there, 
and he is very Hke her — he is uncommonly 
pleasing, and there is none of that slang 
and nonsense about him of the young men 
now-a-days ! What do you mean to do 
with him? he seems so inteUigent, he 
would be fit for anything !" 

VOL. I. F 


" He is acting as a clerk in my banking- 
house," said Mr. Lushington, e\idently 
wishing to evade Mr. Watson s query. 

"Does lie like the occupation?" in- 
quired Mr. Watson, no way discouraged 
by Mr. Lushington's laconic reply. 

''"Wliy should he not?" rejoined Mr. 
Lushington ; and there was a few minutes' 
pause in the conversation, the two gentle- 
men continuing to pace side by side on the 
terrace -walk. 

At last, Mr. Watson, turning to his 
companion rather abruptly, said, " What 
will happen about this church now, should 
Mr. Woodford leave it ? I beheve yom- poor 
Charles was destined for it, and that you 
have the right of presentation to it; in 
short, that it belongs to the property ?" 

"Yes," said Mr. Lushington, his colour 
rising at the mention of Mr. Woodford's 
name, for it recalled painfully all his irri- 
tated feelings of the preceding day. " But," 
he continued, in a minute, as if speaking 
to himself, "that shall not go on. I 


cannot submit to be dictated to in that 
manner in my own home. I will not be 
priest-ridden ! I must take measures to 
— of course I can dispose of the living !" 

'' Dispose of it !" repeated Mr. Watson. 
" What do you mean ? sell it ? surely that 
would be a great pity! and besides you 
would only expose yourself to the risk of 
the same sort of annoyance of which you 
now complain — if not of worse ; for Mr. 
Woodford, though perhaps an absurd, ill- 
judging person, is at any rate a gentlernany 
and means well, and you might fare worse 
in his successor ; and the parsonage and 
chui'ch are such ver}^ near neighbours of 
yours, it would be dangerous to let the 
living go out of yom' hands altogether." 

" Ay, that is the great qxH of it. 
It is hard,'' continued Mr. Lushington^ 
in an angry tone, " to have everything so 
turn against me ! every plan I make over- 
thrown ! This very property is only a 
source of constant trouble and d'sturbance 
to me. People in their graves have no 



riglit to overrule and influence the existence 
of those who come after them ! Wliy in 
the world did my uncle hamper me with 
this estate at all? The immense sum it 
cost me might have been of some use, but 
the place is of none ! on the contrary, it is 
a constant worry. I have no leisure to 
attend to its management, and I know 
nothing of country business. I would 
part with the whole thing to-morrow, if I 
could! but that my uncle has contrived 
to make impossible to me ! I am not even 
sm-e that I could let it ! And then that 
church! with its doleful sounding bell!" 
and Mr. Lushington unconsciously quick- 
ened liis pace, as if with the hope of getting 
away from tlie many painful, irritating 
feelings connected with it. 

" Would Eustace Grey be fitted for the 
profession ? — for the ministry ?" said Mr. 
Watson, after a pause of a few minutes, 
and in a lowered voice, as if almost afraid 
of his own suggestion. Mr. Lushington 
was evidently startled by the question, but 


said nothing, and Mr. Watson continued, 
" He is so young, he has time to fit him- 
self for any profession, and he must have 
learnt habits of application with you. I 
have had some very serious conversation 
with him, and have been much pleased 
with his opinions and sentiments on all 
subjects upon which we have touched. I 
should say he was a remarkably right- 
thinking young man, and I should strongly 
suspect,"' — (added Mr. Watson, in a lower 
tone, as if aware he was touching upon 
dangerous ground), — " I strongly suspect 
his present life does not suit liim, although 
I plainly see that his gratitude to you, for 
all your kindness, makes him unwilling to 
own it. But the fact is, he is too good for 
his present situation, he is above it." 

Those had been Charles' own last words, 
and they e\ddently rang painfully in his 
father's ears ; he felt as if his departed 
son's spirit had dictated them, to his friend, 
and they awed him. He made no answer 
— in truth he was too much ag^itated to 


utter a word, for lie was aware that had he 
attempted to speak, he would have burst 
into tears ; for the death-bed— the ghastly 
face — the faint, broken, almost unearthly 
voice in which that last petition in favour 
of Eustace had been made, all rushed upon 
his memory, and totally overpowered him. 
Mr. Watson, not observing the strong 
emotion which almost convulsed Mr. Lush- 
ington's stern features, continued as he 
walked at his side, his eyes fixed on the 
gravel walk before him : "I believe your 
brother-in-law, poor Grey, had been very 
unfortunate, and that he left little or 
nothing to his widow and child ?" 

" Nothing !" repeated Mr. Lushington ; 
and he then added, as if with a great effort, 
recovering his composure, ' ' I have been at 
the whole expense of my nephew's education, 
he must now repay me by his services ; he 
has good abilities, and may, if he chooses, 
make his own way in the world when I 
have left it. At present he is of use to me 
where he is, and in the mean time he is 


getting an insiglit into business ; and I 
must say, instead of being discontented, be 
sbould esteem bimself as most fortunate in 
having such prospects before him, consi- 
deiing his penny less situation." 

" I doubt, however," again repeated 
Mr. Watson^ "the business suiting liim ! 
I doubt he is happy 1" 

Mr. Lushington made no further reply, 
and the subject was dropped ! Not, how- 
ever, that it was entirely so in Mr. Lush- 
ington's own mind, notwithstanding liis 
apparent impenetrability ; but one of the 
pecuharities of his disposition was never 
to appear to enter into, or even listen to 
any plan suggested by another, until he 
had in some way so altered it as to make 
it appear to be his own. 

Some weeks, therefore, elapsed, and no- 
thing more was said or done on the sub- 
ject of the living. 

Mr. Watson's visit was over, poor 
Eustace was again gone back to his hated 
drudgery in the City, and Mr. Woodford 


was still officiating as before in the parish; 
no further collision had, however, taken 
place between him and Mr. Lushington, 
their intercourse being now entirely con- 
fined to a cold, distant bow when they 
chanced to cross each other's path, which 
casualty Mr. Lushington took care should 
occur as seldom as possible, and never on 
the Sunday ; for he made it a point not 
to enter the church door until he knew 
Mr. Woodford to be safe in his reading- 
desk, and to leave his pew so immediately 
on the service being ended, that by no 
possibility could the preacher get down 
from his pulpit, until the private door 
through which the family passed from the 
churchyard into the shrubbery was firmly 
locked behind them. 

During this period, however, Mr. Lush- 
ington had not been idle. He again and 
ag?in read and carefully reconsidered the 
late Mr. Elsmere's will, with all its pro- 
visos respecting the property left him, the 
church, &c. &c. 


This will had been drawn up in India, 
and apparentl}^ for the express purpose of 
causing litigation, and benefiting the 
lawyers, — so confusedly was it expressed, 
so compHcated in its many '' AVhereas's !" 
On this more careful examination, however, 
Mr. Lushington was confu-med in his idea, 
that under no circumstances whatever was 
it in his power to dispose of any part of 
the Elsmere property. 

While thus poring over the document, 
he was suddenly startled by one of the 
many provisos which had escaped his 
attention before (as well as that of all 
those who had read the will previously), 
by which it appeared very doubtful 
whether, on the possible failure of his 
(Mr. Lushington's) heirs male, Eustace 
Grrey might not lay claim to Elsmere 
Manor, in preference to any daughter of 
Mr. Lushington's. Most thankful was he, 
that no one was with him when this new 
light respecting his uncle's destination of 
his property broke in upon liim, for he felt 


the blood had all rushed to his face, and 
every vein in his forehead throbbed. He 
hastily replaced the important paper in its 
cover and box, endeavouring to quiet his 
mind by the consideration that the clause 
was so ambiguously worded, the contin- 
gence might escape even the most vigilant 
discoverer of doubts and difficulties (as it 
had before himself) ; and besides nothing 
was more urdikely than the case in ques- 
tion occurrinof. Poor Charles was indeed 
gone, but he had another son, who he 
had no doubt would before long marry 
(either with or without his approbation) 
some foolish fine lady of quality, and have 
plenty of silly sons and daughters ! 

*' Poor Charles !" Mr. Lushington ejacu- 
lated to himself — " Poor Charles! he 
would have done well in this world I am 
sure, and I should have liked to have seen 
his son take my place in the banking- 

All these considerations, however, began 
in some degree to reconcile Mr. Lushington 


to the idea of releasing his nephew from 
his irksome Hfe of plodding business, and 
proposing to him to take Charles's place at 
Oxford in preparation for entering the 
Church. There were also other motives 
(and which indeed should have been the 
strongest) which helped to bring him to 
this determination. 

There were awkward recollections (which 
at times would force themselves upon his 
conscience) of the friendly act which years 
before at a critical moment in his (Mr. 
Lushington's) life, the father of Eustace 
had performed even at his own great risk 
and by which he had saved him from ruin 
and even from disgrace. 

Tliis humiliating circumstance, as well 
as the signal favour then conferred upon 
him by his brother-in-law, were both, Mr. 
Lushington well knew, safely bmied in 
that relation's grave ; but when occasion- 
ally some accidental look, gesture, or tone 
of voice in the young man recalled his 
father, that long gone-by, unrequited act 


of generous friendship rushed disagreeably 
upon Mr. Lushington's memory. He 
could not help also (although even against 
his inclination) being strongly drawn to- 
wards Eustace, albeit no two beings could 
be of less congenial natures ; but the mys- 
terious influence exercised upon him by 
his nephew's frank open character and 
affectionate disposition was nresistible. 

Then from those words dropped by Mr. 
Watson on the subject, Mr. Lushington 
feared least he might possibly be con- 
demned by his friends in general, if he 
retained his nephew in so dependent and 
inferior a situation, considering his birth 
and connexions. 

And besides all those considerations, 
there really seemed after all to be no other 
possible occupation in life, except the 
Church, to think of for him, which would 
not entail upon himself still greater trouble 
and expence, Eustace being in a manner 
entirely thrown upon his hands, as he had 
in fact nothing^ of his own, but that 3,000Z. 


bequeathed by Mr. Elsmere to bis mother, 
and by her settled on him. 

All these reflections, in short, at length 
brought Mr. Lushington to the resolution 
of making a virtue of necessity, and obtain- 
ing a good name for liberality and kind- 
ness, by releasing his nephew from his 
present irksome employment, and offering 
him the reversion of the Elsmere living ; 
in the hope too that by systematic opposi- 
tion to all Mr. AVoodford's proposals, that 
gentleman might be induced to give it up. 
And in truth perhaps that riddance was 
the primary cause of Mr. Lushington' s 
present generous intentions towards his 

But notwithstanding liis mind was now 
perfectly made up on the subject, so cold, 
so reserved, and ungenial was his nature, 
that, strange to say, Mr. Lushington 
shrank from the sight of the happiness he 
knew he was about to bestow, and he put off 
and ofl" making his intentions known to 
the object of them, until the Christmas 


after Charles's death, at which season his 
old friend, Mr. Watson, always paid him 
an annual visit, and when Eustace also 
would have a short time of holiday, and 
be at Elsmere. 

Both came — and a day or two after Mr. 
Watson's arrival, Mr. Lushington, in his 
accustomed cold, dry manner, informed 
him of his having finally decided in favour 
of his nephew, whenever the hving should 
be vacated. 

'' Oh, how glad ! how very glad I am 
to hear that !" exclaimed Mr. Watson, in 
his usual hearty friendly manner ; " and is 
not my young friend Eustace very happy 
— very grateful — for liberation from his 
desk ?" 

" I have not yet informed him of my 
decision," was Mr. Lushington's cold re- 
ply, in his coldest, dry est tone. 

'' Not yet told him !" exclaimed Mr. 
Watson ; *' why what a strange man you 
are, my good friend, or else what a strange 
man / must be, for I am sure I could not 


have kept the matter a minute to my- 
self when once I had settled it; and it 
will not be many before Eustace knows 
it now, if you authorise me to inform 

" It is my wish you should do so," said 
Mr. Lushington, still in his accustomed 
unmoved manner. 

It is impossible to describe the surprise, 
the rapturous joy, of poor Eustace when 
informed of his imcle's offer ; his tears 
spoke his gratitude, for he could not 
express it in words. He had never, it 
must be confessed, thought much (that is, 
seriously) about the sacred profession now 
thus suddenly proposed to him, nor was 
he, in truth, at that time, very peculiarly 
clerically disposed; but he saw in his 
uncle's offer release from an occupation 
he actually abhorred. He saw in it free- 
dom ! independence ! He saw in it, in 
short, the prospect, the possibility at 
least, of such happiness! And scarcely 
waiting to receive his kind informer's 


congratulations, lie flew to the library to 
pour forth his gratitude to his uncle. For 
a moment that uncle seemed really moved, 
though evidently almost frightened at 
the degree of ecstatic rapture he had occa- 
sioned; and when Eustace grasped his 
hand between both his, he actually re- 
turned the affectionate pressure — a some- 
what relaxing from his usual frigidity of 
tone and manner. 

" I am glad," said he, " you like my 
proposal; but don't be hasty, you need 
not give me an iaimediate answer : think 
it all well over, and write and consult your 
mother before you decide. Eemember 
you are sacrificing much in giving up the 
banking-house ; you may, by diligence 
and steady attention to business, get on, 
You may — " 

" Oh yes, I will — thank you, dear 
uncle, for yom- kind advice — oh yes, I 
will consider ! I will think !" — and w^hile, 
almost breathless with impatience, he thus 
promised to imuse^ his hand was on the 


lock of the door, in order to make his 
escape the minute it was possible. 

His micle's prudent advice at length 
came to an end, and Eustace hurried away, 
like a madman, first to the drawing-room 
— no one was there : he flew up-stairs ; 
the door of Lucy's room was open, and 
there she v:as, and alone ! He rushed 
in, slammed the door behind him, and, 
clasping her in his arms, imprinted a long, 
fervent kiss upon her forehead. 

The deep crimson which immediately 
overspread it, seemed instantly to recal 
Eustace to his senses ; and blushing nearly 
as much as Lucy herself, he let go her 
hand, and stammering out — '^ I really 
could not help it, I am so very happy," 
he threw himself upon a couch at some 
distance from her. As for Lucy, she had 
been so startled, and such a variety of 
sudden emotions had so agitated her, she 
was now as deadly pale as she had the 
moment before been the reverse, an ^ was 
obliged to catch hold of the end of the 

VOL. I. G 


coucli for support, her head was so 

" Oh, how I have flurried you, Lucy !" 
exclaimed Eustace, as he sprang to her 
side to prevent her faUiug. "Sit down 
— compose yourself — and I will tell you 
all. It is such good news ! dear, dear 
Lucy !" and again he, in his ecstatic hap- 
piness, was going to press her to his heart, 
but a look from Lucy checked him. 

'' Forgive me, forgive me !" he cried, 
" and don't look so frightened ; my mad fit 
is over now — quite over, I assure you : 
hut I really am so very happy, I hardly 
know what I am about. Say you forgive 
me " — and he held out his hand towards 

Lucy took it for a minute — then putting 
it from her, looked up in his face and 
smiled. It was the innocent, playful 
smile of childhood ; it brought Eustace to 
his senses. The awkward moment, when 
(almost unknown to himself) he had be- 
trayed tenderer feelings, had passed away. 


and they were again the Lucy and Eus- 
tace, the playfellows of former days. 

" But do tell me," said Lucy (her voice 
still rather tremulous), " what has hap- 
pened to put you into this extraordinary 
flurry ?" 

Eustace told his story. 

" Oh, how very delightful !" exclaimed 
Lucy. " And you will be settled close to 
us ! and we shall get rid of that odious 
Mr. Woodford, who puts papa so much 
out of humour. How very delightful ! I 
really do not wonder you were so much 
beside yourself on hearing such good 
news !" and again Lucy blushed crimson 
at the remembrance of the effects of this 
good news on her playfellow. 

When, a short time after, Eustace was 
alone in his own room (whither he had 
gone, according to his uncle's desire, to 
write to his mother), he for some time 
wept like a child. Had he been asked 
why, he could not have told ; but he was 
completely overpowered ; and when he at 



lengtli slowly recovered from liis agitation, 
he, for some time, stared vacantly out of 
tlie window before him, quite unconscious 
even of what he was gazing at so fixedly, 
until he was suddenly roused out of his 
dreamy state by the deep, solemn sounds 
of the church bell, and starting up, his 
eye fell upon the grey steeple, then illu- 
minated by a clear Christmas setting sun, 
and on the parsonage-house beside it, half 
hid amid the trees and shrubs which sur- 
rounded it. 

And then another and still more de- 
lightful dream took possession of his 
senses, as in imagination he pictured 
beside him in that parsonage, her whose 
presence would have the power to convert 
even the shades of Erebus into sunshine 
to him. 

How often in after years did that grey 
chmxh steeple and parsonage-house start 
up before the imagination of Eustace as 
he — but we must not anticipate. 

Eustace had grasped his uncle's hand in 


heartfelt gratitude, when informed of his 
kind intentions towards him. He had 
wept with emotion of some sort, at the 
happy change in his worldly prospects ; 
but he had not on his bended knees, 
returned thanks to the Almighty Dis- 
poser of all events, for his unlooked-for 
(perhaps, indeed, it may be added), for 
his undeserved mercy to him. For amiable 
and honourable as Eustace was, his heart 
was not yet touched by Divine grace ; 
he did not yet acknowledge a hea- 
venly Father's hand in all, w^iether of 
good or evil, that befel him. But con- 
science smote him for his ungrateful 
neglect, when, a few days after, he re- 
ceived a letter from his mother in reply 
to his informing her of the happy change 
that had taken place in his future pro- 

The poor widow's' heart truly "sang 
for joy." The church (perhaps, indeed, 
unknown to herself even), that very 
church at Elsmere, had been the object of 


her hopes, her wishes, her prayers, for her 
darhng boy, as a safe refuge from the 
temptations of a world from which she, in 
her lonely helplessness, could not shield 

"When his own cousin, Charles, had 
decided in favour of that profession, and 
the living at Elsmere was accordingly 
promised to him, she could but bow in 
submission to what was ordained; but 
when he was taken away, and that 
living seemed to be in a manner un- 
claimed — undestined, it required all Mrs. 
Grey's resignation not to repine, as she 
thought of her son doomed to pass his 
days in the mind-debasing atmosphere of 
a banking-house, confined to the lowering 
interests of this world : a mind, too, 
which the fond mother felt sure was fitted 
for better things. 

It is not wonderful, therefore, that 
Mrs. Grrey's letter, written under the 
influence of such piously-excited feehngs, 
rendered still more eloquent and affecting 


by lier earnest prayers for liis teniporal 
and spiritual well-doing, should have 
touched the susceptible heart of Eustace 
Grrey ; and perhaps the first strong feeling 
of real devotion in that young heart may be 
dated from the moment when, pressing his 
mother's letter within his clasped hands, 
and scarcely conscious what he did, he 
fell upon his knees, and an earnest prayer 
for Divine assistance to enable him to dis- 
charge his duty to that mother, and his 
heavenly Benefactor, burst from his qui- 
vering Hps. 

When Mrs. Lushington was informed 
of Eustace's new prospects in life, and of 
his gratitude to his uncle for his promise 
of the Elsmere liraig when vacated, she 
could not conceal her surprise at his 
choice, and the sacrifice she considered he 
had made. 

" Well," she exclaimed, " I cannot 
imagine what is come over all the young 
men now-a-days ! They have no spirit ; 
they are all content to mope in corners 


(rrederick, thank heaven, excepted !) ; it 
is nothing but the Church, the eternal 
Church, they care for ! I really cannot 
imagine what it is that possesses them ; 
for I am sm-e it seems to me the dullest 
of all professions — nothing but visiting 
sick and dpng persons, reading prayers 
from morning to night, and preaching 
sermons to which nobody Hstens. I do 
hope, Eustace, you at least don't intend 
to be one of those prodigious good persons 
(like Mr. Woodford), and plague one to 
death with your daily services, and family 
prayers, and all that sort of thing; for 
that will not do at all with your uncle, I 
can tell you ; and I shall myself decidedly 
set my face against all those new-fangled 
notions about reHgion. People were 
quite good enough formerly ; and I, for 
my part, have no intention of setting 
myself up as better than my neighbom-s. 
So, remember my advice, Eustace, or we 
shall be sure to quarrel." 

Eustace laughed, and promised he would 


take care not to be too good. He was to 
begin bis Oxford career at tbe next term, 
and came to pay bis last visit at Elsmere 
Manor before going. Tbe playfellows 
were, if possible, more devoted to eacb 
otber tban ever. Tbey felt probably tbat 
tbeir happy '' playfellow " days were draw- 
ing to a close ; tbat tbey sbould not in 
futm-e be so mucb together as heretofore ; 
and they seemed resolved upon making 
the most of the present holiday-time 
allowed them. 

Mr. Lushington was, as usual, almost 
constantly in London, engrossed by his 
eternal business ; and Mrs. Lushington 
was, in her way, equally taken up with 
her visitors, without whom she was never 
happy : so Lucy and Eustace were very 
much left to their own devices, and ha^dng 
from their childhood been constant com- 
panions, no one noticed or thought any- 
thing of it ; in short, they were, from 
habit, looked upon by others, as well as 
by themselves, as brother and sister. But 


with Eustace, in truth, that was now no 
longer the case, although that first child- 
ish beginning of their intercourse still cast 
such a halo of innocence over their present 
affection, as gave it a totally different 
character from what is ^nilgarly called 
2u flirtation. 

The last evening of Eustace's stay at 
Elsmere had arrived — a lovely May 
evening — and as soon as dinner was 
over, they, unnoticed, made their escape 
from the house, to take their last walk 
together; and this was so common an 
occurrence, no one thought anything about 
it. They wandered long amid all their 
old haunts ; visited the ponies they had 
ridden together — the dogs they had to- 
gether fed — the old woman who kept the 
lodge, and who had always, with a smile 
so pecuHai'ly kind and welcoming, opened 
her gate to " Master Grey'' when he came 
home to Elsmere Manor for the holidays 
(he being much more popular with all that 
class of persons than his cold and even 


hauglity-mannered cousins) ; the young 
man at the garden, too, with whom 
Eustace had played many a game at 
cricket, was remembered; and last, but 
not least among Eustace's tender associa- 
tions, Lucy's garden, where he had so 
often toiled " in the sweat of his brow." 
Nothing, no one was forgotten ; all were 
taken leave of, and not without occasional 
necessary clearings of poor Eustace's 
throat, as he pronounced that disagreeable 
word, good-bye. 

" I should like much," said he, as he 
closed the gate of Lucy's garden, " to take 
a last look of the church, before we go 
home, and, as it is getting dusk, we may 
escape the vigilant eye of our formid- 
able pastor. Shall we go? I have the 

Lucy readily assented, and he drew her 
arm within his, each of them becoming 
more and more silent as they proceeded. 
How dehghtful are such tete-a-tetes, when 
their silence is not even perceived ! They 


arrived at the door leading into the 
churchyard, and entered it, 

" Let us sit down for a little while," 
said Eustace, " for you must be tired." 

Lucy complied, and they placed them- 
selves on the slab of a tombstone, on the 
further side of the churchyard from the 

Eustace sat for some time silent, lost in 
thought ; but at length, while apparently 
still stud} the epitaph of one who 
slept in his grave below, he suddenly 
said, " I had such a delightful dream last 
night — I think I must tell it you. Do 
you ever dream, Lucy? Do you beheve 
in di'eams? do you think that they ever 
prove true?" 

" We are told they go by contraries," 
rej^lied Lucy ; " but what was this de- 
lightful dream of yours ? I may, perhaps, 
be able to give you its interpretation, or 
at least trace it to something that occurred 
the day before, and which, at the moment, 
may have somehow made an impression 


upon you; for I think we can often ex- 
plain dreams in this manner." 

" Oh, no ! you will not be able to ex- 
plain my dream in that way ; it has nothing 
to do with what is past. But, perhaps, it 
may with something in i\iQ future'' 

" Dear me, how very mysterious you 
are !" said Lucy, laughing ; " what can 
this portentous dream be ?" 

" Well, listen, and I will tell it you, 
and perhaps, as you seem so learned in 
the doctrine of dreams, you will be able 
to tell me if it is one you think likely to 
come true. I dreamt — I dreamt — I 
dreamt that you and I were living to- 
gether in that parsonage. In short/' 
added Eustace, in a voice scarcely audible 
from agitation, '' that you were my wife ! 
There it is out," he said, as if much 
relieved. " Now, can you tell me whether 
you think my beautiful dream is likely to 
come to pass, or whether it is to go by 
contraries ?" 


We will leave it to the imagination of 
the reader to fill up this blank ; for how- 
ever delightful lovers' confessions and 
explanations may be to themselves, they 
are remarkably tiresome and insipid to 
others. Suffice it therefore to say, that at 
the termination of their tete-a-tete on the 
gravestone, Eustace drew a small fretted 
gold ring from his finger, and placed it on 

" Now, Lucy," said he, " promise me 
you ^vill wear this ring on the third finger 
of your left hand, until I put another in 
its place, and do you give me the one now 
there. Understand, I ask no promise 
from you, though I bind myself; and 
should you ever change your mind, you 
have only to send me back that ring, and 
I shall know what it means. I could not 
leave you now, not knowing when we 
may meet again (as we have done, at 
least), without opening my heart to you ; 
though I am sure I have told you nothing 
new, nothing you have not known for 


long. And now it is getting late ; they 
will be wondering what has become of us ; 
we had better return to the house." 

"WHien they reached the hall -door, 
Eustace stopped for a moment before 
opening it. " Now, Lucy, remember my 
ring," he said, as he pressed her hand 
within his ; " and remember, too, this 
must be a secret between ourselves for the 
IDvesent. God bless you, dearest !" he 
faintly whispered, as he bent down to- 
wards her, " Grod bless you !" 

No one took any notice either of their 
absence or of their return. Lucy was 
unusually silent all the remainder of the 
evening; but Mrs. Lushington was so 
deeply engaged at ecarte with her visitors, 
her abstraction passed unnoticed, and the 
next morning early Eustace left Elsmere 
Manor for Oxford, 



Eustace Grey had been above two years 
at Oxford at the period of our first be- 
coming acquainted with him, when he 
was beginning to recover from that dan- 
gerous iUness, during which Henry Ne^alle 
had tended him with even more than a 
brother's care and kindness, administering 
to his mind as well as his body, and open- 
ing to his awakened conscience new views, 
new duties, new objects in life ; but at 
the same time arousing him to a sense of 
most culpable thoughtlessness in the past, 
and even of actual criminality of conduct. 
All wliich so preyed upon his mind, that 
his appetite and sleep forsook him, and he 
daily grew thinner and thinner, paler and 
paler, so that Neville became seriously 


alarmed, and strongly recommended his 
leaving Oxford for a time, and trying 
what change of air and scene would do for 
him — advice which Eustace readily agreed 
to follow, as he in truth felt himself to be 
totally unfit for all exertions either of 
mind or body. And he accordingly wrote 
to his mother, announcing his intention 
of paying her a short visit at Torquay. 

Eustace had not certainly by any means 
recovered his bodily strength since his 
illness ; but it was his mind which now 
was chiefly in fault. He was continually 
haunted by those words of Neville, " You 
must not engage in the sacred ministry 
with deceit in your heart !" That deceit, 
that sin, which like David's ''was ever 
before him," (and into which his con- 
science now reproached him with even 
having drawn another,) allowed him no 
peace day or night. For he now plainly 
saw the selfish culpability of his thought- 
less conduct; and whenever his mind 
turned to Lucy, (and when, either day or 

VOL. I. H 


niglit, did it not ?) tlie offence into wliich 
he had betrayed her, through her inno- 
cent, almost childhke affection for him, 
converted every thought connected with 
her into misery. 

He was now also fully aware of all the 
difficulties of his situation, in a worldly 
point of view. He was himself perfectly 
peimyless ! The delightful home beside the 
old grey chm'ch at Elsmere Manor, which 
he had fancied he should have one day to 
offer to Lucy, he was now fully aware 
would not be his (even in prospect) the 
moment Mr. and Mrs. Lushino^ton became 
acquainted with the thoughtless engage- 
ment into which he had betrayed their 
daughter. His dream, therefore — that 
delightfid dream which Eustace had told 
to Lucy, as they sat together on the 
gravestone that last evening of his resi- 
dence at Elsmere — was broken I — it had, 
as she had in a manner foretold, " ofone 
by contraries !" 

With all this preying on his mind, it 


was not extraordinary that Eustace was 
altered; he had indeed grown ten years 
older both in mind and body during the 
last ten months of his life, and this world, 
on his return to it since his illness, seemed 
to him to be a totally different world from 
what he had left it. No wonder, there- 
fore, that his poor mother was shocked at 
the change which had taken place in her 
"darling boy" (as she still called him) 
since they had last met, when his bright 
smile, his joyous laugh, and gay elastic 
spirits had acted upon hers Hke a gleam 
of sunshine — lighting up her widowed 
heart. She was soon convinced it could 
not be bodily debility alone from which 
Eustace was suffering, and she endea- 
voured (as far as she thought it wise in 
her to venture) to obtain his confidence, 
and ascertain the cause of his dejection. 

The first thing which occurred to her 
was, that he had perhaps got into money 
difiiculties at Oxford; for the allowance, 
smaU as it was, which he had hitherto 


received from Mr. Lnsliington, had of 
course, entirely ceased now that he had 
left the banking-house ; and besides what 
Mrs. Grey out of her very limited income 
managed to give him, Eustace, strictly 
speaking, was at present reduced to the 
interest of the 3,000/. bequeathed by Mr. 
Elsmere to his mother. How ardently 
however did that anxious mother hope 
and pray this might be the cause of her 
son's evident disquietude of mind, and 
how gladly would she have parted with 
her all to relieve him, that she might 
again behold on his much-loved face the 
bright smiles which ever cheered her 
heart ! 

But on sounding Eustace on the subj ect 
of his finances, his answers were so open, 
and so simple and satisfactory, she was 
convinced it was not in that line the evil 

There was also in him such remarkable 
innocence and simplicity of tliought and 
feehng, such an abhorrence (on all oc- 


casions expressed) of those practices and 
vices which young men generally treat 
-^Nith such levity, and for which they show 
so httle disgust or compunction, that Mrs. 
Grrey was easy on that point also ; and 
from the bottom of her heart she thanked 
Grod for that mercy. 

'\Miat then could it be? ^Yhiii was 
it that made her dear boy wander list- 
lessly for hom's alone on the sea-shore, 
ajDpai-ently lost in thought, and then re- 
turn to her silent, and depressed ? Could 
it be that he had fallen in love ? (as young 
men are certainly wont to do.) But then 
with whom ? for who could possibly have 
come across liis path, in his dismal, dark 
back-room at Mr. Lushington's banking- 
house? Cupid, himself, would have 
turned away in disgust from so uncon- 
genial an abode. His cousin, Lucy 
Lushington ! might it be her ? And 
Mrs. Grey, under the influence of woman's 
curiosity, resolved on endeavouring to 
clear up the mystery. One day, there- 


fore, when slie and Eustace were together 
alone (he fancying he was reading the 
book he held in his hand), she suddenly 
said — 

" Eustace, can you tell me anything of 
your uncle ? Is he still in London, or is 
he gone back to Italy, for I know he was 
not to be absent long ?" 

'' I don't know," was Eustace's laconic 
reply, as he returned to his book, evi- 
dently desiring the subject should be 

But Mrs. Grrey continued : 

" Do you ever hear from Lucy ? does 
she ever write to you now ? In former 
days, I know you were great correspond- 
ents." And Mrs. Grey raised her eyes 
towards her son. 

She could now no longer doubt but 
that she had touched the right spring — 
and she was almost frightened at the 
effect of that venturous touch. 

The tell-tale blood had rushed up to 
Eustace's very temples, swelling every 


vein, and Ms lips quivered. There was no 
need for any farther inquiry — all was ex- 
plained. The poor mother at once saw 
how it was with her stricken child. She 
went up to him, and imprinting a long, 
fond kiss on his forehead, without uttering 
another word left the room. 

They did not meet again till dinner- 
time, when Eustace was less abstracted, 
and more like himself, than he had hither- 
to been — hoping, probably, thereby to do 
away the impression which he feared 
might have been made on his mother's 
mind, by his unguarded moment of agi- 
tation that morning. 

About a week after this discovery with 
regard to the state of her son's feelings, 
Mrs. Grrey received a letter from Mr. 
Lushington. This was so rare an occur- 
rence, that she opened it with some tre- 
pidation, fancying it might concern Eus- 
tace and her recent discovery. It was as 
follows : — 


" London, February, 1828. 
" My dear Sister, — I am sorry to 
learn (in a roundabout way) that Eustace 
is so far from being recovered from his 
late illness, as I had hoped he was, that 
he has been advised to leave Oxford for a 
time, and that he is with you at Torquay. 
Pray let me know how he is ; for ]Mr. 
Watson (through whose son, now with 
me, I have obtained this information) 
seems to fear from what he has heard 
fr'om a friend at Oxford, that Eustace is 
very seriously unwell, and quite unfit at 
present for Oxford work. I must say I 
think it is a great pity he ever left Fen- 
chm'ch-street, where he never had a day's 
illness, and where he always appeared gay 
and happy. He has (young Watson 
says) been studying much too hard, and 
the physician's opinion is, that rest both 
of mind and body is absolutely necessary 
for him. If this is really the case, I am 
authorised by ^Ir. Watson (who somehow 
took a strange fanc}- to Eustace when he 


met liim at Els mere), to make the follow- 
ing proposal to him. His second son, 
Xed, who is now in Eustace's place in 
the banking-house, is going back with me 
to Eome for a short time (as I require 
some one to write for me just now), and 
will return home in about five or six 
weeks, and if Eustace would really be 
the better (medically) for such a change 
of scene and air, I am willing to take him 
with me, and he can, Mr. Watson says, 
return with his son (and, consequently, 
free of expense) in a very short time. I 
put the matter into your hands, and you 
will judge whether to propose the plan to 
Eustace or not (if you think it will un- 
settle him). I shall start for Eome in 
about a fortnight ; and we shall all, I 
hope, be home early in Jmie. 
" Yours, 


Had Mrs. Grey been in any doubt before 
as to the state of her son's mind (or rather 
heart), none would have remained after 


she had read to him his uncle's letter. 
At first he really was not able to speak 
at all. Its contents had so taken him by 
surprise, and contending feehngs had so 
completely overpowered him, that Mrs. 
Grey repeated her inquiry — " Well, Eus- 
tace, what do you say ? shall you like 
to go?" — several times, before she got 
any answer whatever ; at length, on the 
question being put the third time, he 
stammered out — • 

" I don't know — I am not sure — I 
must inquire — consult — I don't know 
how far I should." 

" Of course," said Mrs. Grrey, hoping 
to assist him in coming to a decision — 
" Of com'se you must not break through 
college rules — but — ^but — " and there she 
stopped, for, in truth, she did not very 
well know how to finish her sentence. 
Had she spoken out, according to a doat- 
ing mother's feehngs, she would have 
added — " But I long for whatever will 
make my dear Eustace look happy, and 


like liimself again/' Eustace made no 
answer, and closing his book, left the room. 

On reaching his own apartment, it was 
some time before he was sufficiently com- 
posed, even to be sm^e what he did wish, 
in consequence of Mr. Lushington's letter 
— and still less what he ought to wish ! 
At length he resolved on easing his mind 
and quieting his conscience, by seeking 
the advice of his friend, Mr. Neville, and 
leaving it to him to fix his fate. 

Mr. Neville's answer came by return of 
post ; it was as follows : — " I am too little 
acquainted with the particular circum- 
stances of your situation to be able to 
give you any advice. I have no doubt, 
but that in consideration of the state of 
your health, the provost will prolong your 
leave of absence — only you must make it 
a point to be back in time not to lose your 
term. As to the advisability of your 
joining yom' friends in Italy, you must in 
that be guided entirely by your own feel- 
ings and conscience ; but, again, I repeat 


— as you value your happiness in tliis 
world, and still more in the next — do not 
think of entering the sacred ministry 
witlt deceit in your heart. 

" Yours, 

"H. N." 

What answer poor Eustace had hoped 
to have received from his friend, or what 
other indeed he could have fancied Mr. 
Neville could possibly have given him, 
it is difficult to say ; but he was much 
disappointed both at the brevity and the 
contents of this letter, and more than ever 
j)erplexed with regard to his decision. At 
length, after a considerable time, not of 
thought exactly, but of contention of feel- 
ing, he suddenly seized his pen and ex- 
claiming — " Come what may I will see her 
again ! I will enjoy one short moment 
of felicity, and then — then I will confess 
all, and leave my fate in the hands of — of 
God !" Eustace wrote in the abundance of 
his heart a most grateful letter to his uncle, 


and also to his kind friend, Mr. Watson ; 
and in little more than a week's time, he 
was with his two companions on his way 
to Eome — to Lucy ! — a much graver, 
paler, thinner man, than when he and 
his playfellow had parted two years before, 
but strengthened in principle, and re- 
solved, with manly courage, to do his 
duty, let the result be what it might. 

And so sincere was Eustace in this 
his determination, that had it not been 
for the presence of young Watson, who 
was third with him and his uncle in their 
traveUing carriage, his dreaded confession 
would, in aU probability, have been made 
before the termination of their journey. 

As they approached their final destina- 
tion, however, other feelings obtained the 
mastery. Lucy's image was now ever 
before him, and he could scarcely beheve 
his happiness, when he thought that in a 
few more days he should actually be with 
her ; once more behold her beloved coun- 
tenance — hear her voice — be under the 


same roof with her — see her all day long — 
the first thing in the morning, the last 
thing at night ! So long a time had now 
passed since he had enjoyed snch extatic 
happiness, and so strong did hope and 
yonth still hve Tvdthin his breast, that he 
resolved on banishing (at least for the 
next few weeks) all painful anticipations 
and reflections, and being for that short 
period, as happy as he could ; and then — 
and then — " Come what may, all shall be 
made known." Having thus made this 
compact with principle and his conscience, 
Eustace gave himself up to rapture ; and 
no words can describe the suffocating 
throbbing of his heart, when, faintly 
and still at a considerable distance, the 
dome of St. Peter's, glittering in a 
bright Itahan setting sun, first caught 
his eye. 

He actually started on liis seat, and 
turning hastily towards young Watson, 
who was slumbering in the corner of the 
carriage beside him, '' AYake, wake !" he 


exclaimed, as he seized iiim by the arm. 
'' Why, there is St. Peter's !" 

" What do you say ?" cried his startled 
companion, with a vacant, sleepy stare. 
" Who ? Peter ? What's the matter ? 
What has happened ?" 

" The matter !" repeated Eustace. " Why, 
don't you see that we are all but arrived ! 
There actually is St. Peter's ! there ! there, 
to your right !" 

" Oh ! is that all ?" replied his more 
phlegmatic companion. " I really thought 
some accident had occurred ;" and for a 
moment looking out of the carriage-win- 
dow in the direction to which Eustace 
pointed, " Ah, well, perhaps that may be 
St. Peter's ; but we are still many a mile 
distant, T dare say : tell me when we are 
fairly arrived." And so saying, Ned 
Watson returned to his comer in the 
carriage, and resumed his slumbers. 

Mr. Lushiagton, to whom Pome and 
St. Peter's were no novelties, either was, 
or pretended to be asleep also ; so that 


during the hour which stiU intervened 
before actually reacliing their destination, 
Eustace was left to the luxuiy of his own 
rapturous anticipations. 

The gate of Eome was entered ; the 
Piazza del Popolo, with its churches, 
statues, and fountains, was passed ; but 
of all this Eustace saw nothing. The 
Via Babuino, into which they then drove, 
seemed endless ; such a confusion of car- 
riages, clumsy carts wdtli barrels rolling 
about in them and out of them at every 
step ; whole strings of obstinate donkeys, 
with enormous panniers, continually pass- 
ing before their horses' noses. At length, 
however, all these difficulties were sur- 
mounted ; the travellers entered the Piazza 
di Spagna — the carriage drove up to the 
door of Serni's hotel, and Eustace caught 
the first sight of Lucy at the balcony. 
That moment of rapture ! when, after a 
long separation, aU our fondest visions of 
reunion are realized, and our eyes behold 
the being we have so long only dreamt of. 


Could that moment possibly be bought, 
what sums would not be expended in the 
purchase ! Even the widow's mite, it is 
to be feared, would often be thus spent, 
if it could procure for her but one look 
of the face she had once so loved to look 




Bee ORE we enter upon tlie account of 
Eustace Grey's life in Eome, we had 
better explain how such (to all appear- 
ance) an unlikely circumstance as the 
Lushington family being there located, 
came to pass. It had long been the ob- 
ject of Mrs. Lushington' s most earnest 
wishes to go abroad : not that she cared 
one farthing for any of the objects for 
which people visit foreign parts ; but at 
the time of which we are treating (about 
thirty years ago), everj^body went abroad, 
many as little fitted by refinement of 
mind and education to benefit by the 
expedition as ]\Irs. Lushington herself; 
for she (innocent woman !) did not, even 
after she had seen them, know one moun- 


tain, or lake, or picture, or statue, or 
scarcely one town, or even country, from 
another — all being jumbled together in 
lier head, into that one comprehensive 
THING called abroad ! 

But, as we have said, it was incumbent 
on every one at that period (when peace 
had at last opened the Continent, so long 
shut up), for every one to make the regu- 
lar tour through France, Grermany, Swit- 
zerland, and Italy. So everybody went : 
three-fourths of these travellers (although 
with Mrs. Starke in their carriage-pocket) 
coming home again none the wiser or 
better, and many, indeed, very much the 
worse for their unsettled, wandering, idle 

It was not, as we have already said, 
either beauty of scenery, or the fine arts, 
or the interest of historical antiquity, 
which attracted Mrs. Lushington, but 
the secret hope of making her way into 
that better most fine society from which, 
owing to her connection with the world 


beyond Temple Bar, she was naturally 
excluded at home, and which, in conse- 
quence of the jumbling together at this 
time of all sorts and classes of individuals 
(of all such, at least, as travelled with two 
carriages, ladies' -maids, and gentlemen's- 
gentlemen, and a courier galloping on 
before, to turn the inns topsy-turvy for 
their accommodation), might, she hoped, 
be accomplished in the chance meetings 
and fortunate accidents of foreign travel. 
And in this idea Mrs. Lushington was 
certainly much more in the right, and 
judged much wiser judgment than she did 
about most things. For it must be con- 
fessed that Mrs. Lushington was neither 
more nor less than an exceedingly silly 
woman — on all subjects, at least, except 
such as are connected with little worldly 
plottings and calculations ; for on those 
she was wonderfully acute. 

How Mr. Lushington, the careful, sen- 
sible, prudent Mr. Lushington, came to 
marry so silly a woman, may at first sight 


seem strange ; but the case is easily ex- 
plained by referring to more than half of 
the marriages which take place in the 

Mrs. Lushington had been, and, indeed, 
was still, a very pretty woman. Mr. 
Lushington once Avas young, and in an 
unguarded moment, poor man ! he actu- 
all}^ fell in love, and somehow got entan- 
gled in matrimony before he knew what 
he was about ; and wise as he might be 
in regard to money speculations, he, when 
under the influence of that malady, and 
although quite aware of his fah one's 
inferiority of intellect, made a wrong cal- 
culation in that adventure, thinking that 
a wife not much overburdened with mind 
or car act ere (according to the French pro- 
nunciation and meaning of the word) 
would be more docile and subservient, 
and give him less trouble than one more 
highly endowed by Nature, by being con- 
tent to play a secondary part in the 
matrimonial drama. But in this, Mr. 


Luslnngton (like many besides liim) found 
himself to be grievously mistaken ; for bis 
better half soon proved tbatif sbe failed in 
natural superiority of intellect, sbe pos- 
sessed, to an eminent degree, tliat talent 
wbicb succeeds in gaining its point wben 
mere sense and reason fails, namely, the 
art of teasing ; and sbe was cbecked in 
tbe use of tbat art by no delicacy of feel- 
ing or qualms of conscience. Witb re- 
gard to tbis foreign expedition, circum- 
stances also bad favoured Mrs. Lusbing- 
ton's wisbes in a wonderful, and most 
unlooked-for manner. 

Mr. Lusbington's life of incessant la- 
borious tbougbt and calculation, bad at 
lengtb brougbt on an alarming disposition 
to apoplexy, at least of blood to tbe bead, 
and entire relaxation from all business, 
— complete rest of mind, in sbort, was 
most peremptorily ordered hj tbe family 

Tbis was not to be secured if be re- 
mained witbin possible reacb of tbe city, 


the banking-house, his partners, and his 
clerks, all which unfortunate dependents 
he was ever overlooking at their desks 
with the most scrutinizing ^agilance. He 
must, in short, go out of England — no- 
thino^ less than that would do. 

Now this family physician was an espe- 
cial and confidential friend of Mrs. Lush- 
ington's, who was always fancying she 
needed his advice for some vague, name- 
less, and not-to-be-detected complaint, and 
she gave him to understand, that a ivinter 
in Rome would be of the greatest service 
both to herself and her husband, besides 
probably checking that disposition to cold 
and cough to which Lucy (like every one 
else in winter everywhere) was inclined; 
and so well did Mrs. Lushington manage 
her game that the whole family were 
ordered to Italy immediately, and to Italy 
the whole family prepared to go. 

Xot that ^Ir. Lushington would have 
been so obedient to either wife or phy- 
sician, had it not been that, among his 


numerous and complicated speculations, 
he had entered into some connected with 
the banking-houses of the Eothschilds at 
Naples, and Torlonia at Eome, with both 
of whom some personal communications 
were just then peculiarly desirable. 

Such were the circumstances which led 
to the Lusliingtons' journey to Italy ; and 
they had been established about three or 
four months at Eome at the time when 
Eustace received that letter from Lucy 
which drew down upon her NeviUe's 
animadversions, and from wdiich may be 
dated a new era in the existence of Eus- 
tace Grey. 

Lucy's welcome to her cousin was as 
kind as ever it had been, but perhaps 
more reserved, and her expressions of 
pleasure in again seeing him more re- 
strained. She gave his hand one affec- 
tionate pressure, and then hastily with- 
drew hers from his grasp. She gave him 
one bright smile, and then turned imme- 
diately to her father. 


Poor Eustace was so nervously alive to 
everything connected with Luc}^ that 
even at this very first moment he fancied 
(though he could not have told in what) 
that she was not just the same — that she 
was somehow changed. 

And so she was, in many ways — Her 
manners were more formed ; there was no 
longer anything of the child in them. She 
was also changed in appearance, but de- 
cidedly improved, although her complexion 
was somewhat browned by an Italian sun. 
Her countenance had more expression — 
more mind in it : she was slimmer, too, 
in figure, which made her appear taller, — 
in short, she was changed, there was no 
denying it, and Eustace, who could not 
bear to look upon any indications of her 
not being exactly the same Lucy she had 
ever been, heaved a sigh at the altera- 

The day on which Mr. Lushington 
was to reach Eome having been uncer- 
tain, Mrs. Lushington had engaged some 


of her new fashionable acquaintances re- 
siding in the same hotel (which, indeed, 
comprises nearly two sides of the Piazza 
di Spagna), to dine with her that very 
evenino" • and as the travellers did not 
arrive till near six, there was httle time 
for more than welcomings, before it was 
necessary to part for their respective toi- 
lettes ; and when Eustace re-entered the 
salon, the party were all assembled, and 
Lucy was so surrounded by her new 
friends, he could not even get near her. 

Dinner was soon after announced, and 
a tall good-looking man, who had pre- 
viously been talking most assiduously to 
her, offered Lucy his arm, and they went 
into the dining-room together. Again a 
vague, unhappy, disappointed feehng 
passed over Eustace's mind; again he 
said to himself, " How Lucy is changed !" 
And yet, what had poor Lucy said or 
done ? and what, indeed, could she have 
done or said differently than she had ? 

As there were several more men than 


women of the party, and as he was 
unknown to them all, and, consequently, 
noticed by none, Eustace and his sleepy 
travelling companion, Ned Watson, were 
the two last who entered the dinner-room. 
Poor Eustace's pulse was rapidly sinking : 
aU this was so totally different from the 
reception which he had rehearsed over and 
over to himself during the last days of his 
journey. Was it worth while to have 
travelled so many hundred miles in order 
to sit by Ned Watson ? for he and Ned 
Watson were still standing side by side 
near the entrance-door into the dining*- 
room, while the guests were placing them- 
selves, and he foresaw they were to be 
inseparable 1 

On a sudden, however, he caught the 
eye of Lucy anxiously looking at him, 
from the further side of the dinner-table. 
She pointed to an empty seat next hers, 
and in a minute, at the risk of overthrow- 
ing several of the attendants and their 
dishes, Eustace was seated by her side. 


She commenced immediately asking 
him all sorts of questions relative to his 
journey ; how he had hked this and that ; 
where they had slept the night before, &c., 
&c.; in short, aU. those usual inquiries 
which every one settled at Eome makes of 
a newly-arrived traveller. Before long, 
however, her neighbour on the other side 
appeared to grow impatient of her ex- 
clusive attention to the new comer, and in 
order to recall it to himself, began talking 
of their adventures of that morning, 
discussing the ruins and aqueducts they 
had visited, and proposing another such 
equestrian expedition into the Campagna 
the following day. Eustace, not having, 
of course, the least idea even of what they 
were talking about, could not join in the 
conversation, and, in consequence, sat in 
disconcerted silence ; and as he looked 
around the table, and did not see a face he 
had ever seen before (except the eternal 
Ned Watson, not yet quite awake from his 
carriage slumbers), how he wished himself 


at Elsmere Manor, fourtli ^^th his uncle, 
aunt, and Lucy I 

Eustace had never mixed in general 
society, the close application to business 
to which he had been confined while with 
his uncle in the City, and since to his 
studies at Oxford, making that impossible ; 
his manners, therefore, were the result of 
good sense and good feeling, united to 
a naturally superior understanding, rather 
than of intercourse wdth the w^orld, and 
he had, consequently, as Mr. Watson had 
said, " none of the slang " of the fashion- 
able young men of the day. 

In no society, however, could Eustace 
have been deplace, and there was so great 
a charm in his intelligent countenance, 
and simj)le, open manners, that every one, 
from the first, was prepossessed in his 
favour. Eut Eustace w^as quite uncon- 
scious of these his attractions, and finding 
himself now on a sudden thrown amongf a 
set of persons of a totally difierent class of 
society from that in which he had ever 


mixed, lie felt thoroughly abashed and 
disconcerted; and again he thought, 
" Why did I ever come to Italy ? for 
alas ! it is not coming to Lucy !" 

There was, however, at length, a pause 
in her animated conversation with her 
right-hand neighbour, and she turned to 
Eustace, " I have been consulting with 
Sir Alexander Melville," she said, " what 
will be the best way of beginning your 
Eoman education, for there is so much to 
be seen and done, you must lose no time, 
and I really do not know how to arrange it 
all. To-morrow, of course, you must be in- 
troduced in form to St. Peter — and it will 
take a long time to do him thoroughly — 
then there is the Vatican, and Sistine 
Chapel close by, if there is time. Then 
next day, we will go — oh, next day is 
Sunday, I rather think;" and she added, 
after a moment (again turning to Su' 
Alexander), " Have you heard, by-the-by, 
that his Holiness is so much discomposed 
at the manner in which we heretics dese- 


crate St. Peter's, by converting it (as he 
says) into a regular public lounge, during 
vespers on Sundays, that lie has arranged 
with. Bishop Baines that he shall preach 
at the ' Jesu and Maria ' at that same 
hour, in order to try and draw away the 
English from his own particular sanctum 
sanctorum, being shocked at our irrever- 
ence ? Now, which had we better go to 
on Sunday ? I should like very well to 
hear Bishop Baines preach, he is such a 
picturesque old man, with his black dress, 
and large gold cross, and he is very 
eloquent, I believe ; but I grudge losing 
the music at St. Peter's. The sermon, I 
suppose, would be most in your line, 
Eustace," said she, again turning to him, 
with a smile, " now you are grown so — 
so ecclesiastical; and you will, I suspect, 
Hke him, be inclined to give us all a scold 
for our levity and bad behaviour in their 
churches and at their religious ceremonies, 
and I must say it is not very decorous. 
So what do you say, Eustace ? what shall 


we do ? for I know Lady Emily will go 
to wliichever we fix upon." 

Eustace was silent for a moment, and 
then taking courage, said, "Is there not 
an English Protestant Church we can go 

" Oh, yes, we can go there in the 
morninsr. But I do not wish to lose any 
of the terribly short time (by what papa 
says) that you are to be here, and I do so 
long to begin your sight-seeing. But," 
she continued, in a lower voice, and 
bending down her head towards Eustace, 
" how delightful your being here at all ! 
I had not even dreamt of such a thing 
being possible, and could scarcely believe 
it, when papa wrote to tell us of Mr. 
Watson's kind proposal and arrangement 
for you. He is such a dear, kind, old 
man ;" and Lucy's mind apparently left 
Eome, and its sights, and company, and 
travelled home to all her former interests 
and associations ; and she continued in a 
still lower voice, " "Were you not sm-prised 


and rejoiced at that piece of news I sent 
you about Mr. Woodford? It really is 
quite a relief to think we shall not have 
him any more to bother us with his good- 
ness : so that now we may look upon that 
as settled, I hope ; and you have only to 
make haste, and take orders as soon as 
possible." Then after a moment's pause 
she exclaimed, " That dear, old grey 
chuiTh !" 

Eustace had felt rather uncomfortable 
dming the w^hole of these home reminis- 
cences, and when Lucy named the " dear, 
old grey chm'ch," he was seized with such 
a strange, choking sensation, that he was 
obhged to have recoui'se to a tumbler of 
water near him, and drank it off at a 

Sh Alexander, apparently taking ad- 
vantage of this pause in their conversation 
said (not in so low a voice, however, but 
that Eustace heard him), and in rather a 
supercihous tone, " AVho is that sitting 
beside you ? He seems quite neiv — for I 

VOL. I. K 


have not seen him before — is he your 
brother ?'* 

" Yes," said Lucy ; and then, laughing 
at her answer, and blushing deeply, she 
added, " Oh, no ! not exactly my brother, 
but almost — my cousin. " Eustace," said 
she, turning to him, in a confused, hurried 
manner, " I must introduce you to Su' 
Alexander Melville. I supj^ose I should 
have done so before, but I forgot you 
were not acquainted." 

The gentlemen bowed, but neither 
spoke. As for poor Eustace, he was 
altogether too much put out to have any- 
thing ready to say, and his new acquaint- 
ance looked at him with an expression 
which seemed to imply, that he did not 
think him worth the trouble of a forced 
conversation. Several more visitors came 
in the evening, Lord and Lady This, and 
Sir Something and Lady That, and 
several young men (many of them honour- 
ables). In short, Mrs Lushington had 
evidently gained her point, and was at 


last admitted into that fasHonable elite of 
society which had so long been the object 
of her ambition ; and she was, in conse- 
quence, rayonante with dehght and good 

How far it suited Mr. Lushington's 
taste, might be doubtful ; but, at all 
events, being completely a gentleman, both 
in manner and ajDpearance, he seemed less 
out of his element in it than his wife, who 
overacted her part, from the fear of not 
coming up to it. He was also much im- 
proved by being in the society of those 
with whom he was not quite at his ease, 
and to whom he could not lay down the 
law, as he was apt to do among his City 
friends, who all looked up to him with 
especial respect and deference. 

As for Lucy, again Eustace was struck 
with the change which had taken place in 
her. Perhaps she was improved — she had 
more of what is called manner, more con- 
versation, more self-possession — in short, 
was perhaps more generally attractive ; 

K 2 


but he, in liis jealous, devoted affection, 
wished her to be exactly what she had 
ever been, looking to him as her first — as 
he had hitherto been — her only companion 
and friend. IN'ow, on the contrary, sur- 
rounded by all her new acquaintances, oc- 
cupied with them about things and people 
of whom he as yet knew nothing, all 
talking their Eoman talk, and with their 
Eoman jokes and allusions, he seemed to 
be the excluded stranger, and the rest of 
the company her intimate friends. 

Most wearisome, therefore, to poor 
Eustace, was this first evening at Eome. 
At length, however, the \^sitors all re- 
paii'ed to their respective apartments and 
hotels : and !Mr. Lushington, in rather a 
peevish tone, declaring he was " very 
tired," candles were rung for, and each 
prepared to retire to rest. As Eustace 
and Lucy shook hands, on bidding each 
other good night (according to their old- 
established custom from childhood), Lucy 
said, in a voice low enough not to be 


heard by Mrs. Lusliington, wlio was jnst 
before tbem, " Shall we play at being at 
Elsmere to-morrow morning, and have a 
walk together before breakfast ? Mamma is 
always very late, so there will be plenty 
of time for me to take you up to the 
Pincio, if you will be rested enough after 
your jommey, and would like it." There 
can be no doubt as to what answer Eustace 
made to this proposal, and thus they 
parted for the night. 

After he had reached his own room, it 
was long before Eustace even thought of 
going to bed, still longer before he went 
to sleep. Whether it was pain or pleasure 
which kept him awake, he could not pro- 
bably himself have told ; his mind was in 
so strange, so agitated a state. He was 
again under the same roof with Lucy, and 
yet the}^ seemed to be totally separated ; 
and he had not courage even to attempt 
to surmount the mysterious barrier, which 
appeared now to be raised between them. 
She, surrounded by her numerous new 


friends and admirers, (for evidently, as he 
thought, Sir Alexander MelviUe admired 
her,) was light-hearted and happy ; while 
he alone, with his self-tormenting thoughts, 
his " fault ever hefore him," and his 
dreaded confession hanging over him (a 
dead weight on his spirits), was miserable ! 
Sometimes he regretted he had availed 
himself of his uncle's invitation to accom- 
pany him to Italy, only, as it appeared, to 
be made more unhappy. Then Neville's 
inquiry, " Is she a child of Grod ?" shot 
through his mind, and a deep sigh escaped 
liim. Was it Lucy that was changed, or 
was it himself? for surely she did not for- 
merly, he thought, talk with such levity 
upon serious subjects, as she seemed to 
him to do now. Thus tormented with 
recollections of the past, and fears for the 
future, Eustace spent the first night of his 
residence at Eome. No wonder that he 
looked worn, pale, and iU next day. 



The cousins were punctual to their ap- 
pointment, and met in the sitting-room. 
Lucy greeted Eustace in her old, intimate 
manner; and then, looking earnestly at 
him for a moment, " Dear Eustace, how 
iU you have been ! Last night, by candle- 
Hght, I was not aware of your bad looks, 
but now I see how pale and thin you are 
grown 1 You must have been very ill ?" 
" Yes, I believe I was," said Eustace ; " but 
I am quite well now, and shall soon, I 
dare say, recruit here — with you," he 
added in a lower tone, for conscience gave 
him a twinge. He had still hold of 
Lucy's hand, and his eyes, at that moment, 
feU upon the small fretted gold ring on 
that same third finger on which he had 


himself placed it. He instantly di'opped 
her hand, as if it had stung him, while 
the deepest crimson suffused his face. 
Luc^, who had observed what had at that 
moment attracted his attention, coloured 
also, but said nothing ; and they immedi- 
ately sallied forth, and mounted the long 
flight of marble steps leading to the Tri- 
nita di Monte. 

It had been nearly dark on the preceding 
evening, when Eustace and his fellow- 
travellers arrived ; and having then eyes 
for nothing but Lucy^ he was, as yet, per- 
fectly unaware of his present locale; the 
vieWy therefore, which now burst upon 
him on reaching the sort of platform at 
the summit of the Trinita steps, astonished 
and delighted him. He looked down upon 
the Eternal City ! Before him rose St. 
Peter's, alone and majestic, even amid the 
crowd of surrounding steeples, cupolas, 
and domes, towering above them aU. 
Beyond, his eye wandered to ruined aque- 
ducts, reaching far into the Campagna. 


He beheld the Capitol, Trajan's Arch, the 
Colosseum — all relics of the past ; names 
which he had so often read in history, and 
which, of themselves, are enough to excite 
the feehngs of the most ignorant and 
phlegmatic, and Eustace Grey was neither. 
He was in an ecstasy of astonishment and 
dehght, and Lucy was delighted with his 
raptures. " I am so very glad you are 
worthy of all this," said she ; " you some- 
how looked last night so unlike yourself, 
so — so out of sorts, in short. I was afraid 
that, after all, your expedition was not 
going to answer. Kow, I insist upon 
your putting yourself entirely into my 
hands while you are at Eome, and doing 
whatever I bid you ; and to begin, I must 
positively get you out of your awful 
gravity, for I see quite plain, that, with 
your new serious ideas about everything, 
(and Lucy laid a great stress on the word 
serious,) you actually think it ^^Tong to be 
happy and merry." A deep sigh involun- 
tarily escaped poor Eustace's breast. 


" There now, what is that sigh for ?" she 
added, laughing. " I suppose you will say 
for your sins ; and, no doubt, we have all 
of us plenty of them to sigh for; but 
please put off your repentance till I have 
done the honours of Eome to you, and 
be content with being (at least for the 
present) as good, or rather as had, as your 
neighbours ; and you need not try to per- 
suade me you are even the latter, for I 
never can or shall believe it ;" and with 
the most bewitching smile, she laid her 
hand on the arm of Eustace. Poor Eus- 
tace ! to what a sore trial was he then put ! 
How he longed to press that dear hand to 
his heart — to his lips ! but he did neither, 
he dared not even speak, and they re- 
turned to their hotel nearly in silence. 
Mr. and Mrs. Lushington had not yet 
appeared for breakfast, so they had time 
to plan their day's sight-seeing. 

" Lady Emily and Mr. Maxwell are to 
be here at two, to go with us to St. Peter's 
and the Vatican," said Lucy, " and Sir 


Alexander Melville said lie would join us 

" Oh, why ?" exclaimed Eustace, eagerly, 
" why can't we go alone ? it would be so 
much pleasanter." 

Lucy laughed. " Oh, I suppose that 
would not be proper, not comme il faut, 
mamma would say ; and Mr. Maxwell is a 
capital cicerone, very knowing about pic- 
tures, and statues, and antiquities, and 
will tell you about them all much better 
than I can." 

" I should have been much better 
pleased with your information, however," 
murmured Eustace, dejectedly, for he 
dreaded being again cheated of Lucy's 
society, as he had been the preceding 

Every one is now-a-days so well ac- 
quainted with all the interesting sights of 
Eome, there is no need to go over the 
ground again with Eustace. Suffice it to 
say, he was tolerably well content with 
the share he had of Lucy's company and 


conversation tliat morning, thanks to 
other persons, who, joining their party, to 
a degree drew off the attention of Lady 
Emily and Sir Alexander; and Eustace 
was too much alive to all that is interest- 
ing and beautiful in art and antiquity, 
not to have been (for the moment at least) 
taken out of himself, and made to forget 
his cares and fears. On their return to 
the hotel, Lucy was informed that Mrs. 
Lushington desired to see her in her own 
room. Eustace, who heard the message, 
immediately turned towards her with a 
look of alarm, his scared imagination 
keeping him in a constant state of nervous 

" Don't be frightened," said Luc}^ 
laughing ; "I don't think we can pos- 
sibly have done wrong, or trespassed 
against any rule of the strictest propriety 
and good manners since we left home. I 
dare say it is only some order about the 

The minute Lucy entered, Mrs. Lush- 


ington's room, the latter inquired, in 
rather an angry tone, where she had been, 
and with whom ? 

" Only to the Vatican with Lady Emily 
and Mr. Maxwell, mamma, as you know 
was settled last night." 

" Oh, well ! I was afraid yon had been 
scampering about with Eustace again ; for 
Lady Eainsforth, who has been here, tells 
me that you and he were out walking 
together alone, this morning, on the 
Pincio, which I must say was a most 
extraordinary tiling for him to think of 
proposing to you to do ; and I beg it may 
never be repeated. Lady Eainsforth 
really seemed quite shocked !" 

" It was entirely my proposal, mamma : 
we used, you know, constantly to walk 
out together at Elsmere, and I longed to 
show him the view from the Trinita del 

" WeU, I beg you will show him no 
more Trinitas or an^Hihing else before 
breakfast again. It is quite hoydenish, 


and very mauvais ton, and I wonder how 
you could ever think of such a thing ! 
Eustace, of course, knows no better, and 
nothing of the world, or good manners, 
how can he ? It is all very well your 
being what you call playfellows formerly 
at Elsmere; but that sort of childish 
thing will not do here. And I am sure 
he can't be much of a jo/a^/fellow (as you 
call him), for I never saw a more wo- 
begone, deplorable-looking object than he 
is grown ! What in the world is the 
matter with him ?" 

"He has been very ill you know, 
mamma ; and, I think, he is much out of 

" Out of spirits ? What nonsense ! what 
should he be ' out of spirits ' for ? It is a 
great pity he did not stay where he was, 
in the banking-house. I always said so, 
and I always wiU. He wiU get all sorts 
of foohsh notions into his head at Oxford ; 
indeed I should not be at all surprised if 
he took to those new-fangled notions 


about high church steeples, which all 
young men are now mad about. What it 
is I am sure I don't pretend to know, 
only I understand it is something very 
dangerous and wrong; and if Eustace 
gives into it, my service to him, for I am 
determined I will not countenance such 
things. So now remember, Lucy, I insist 
upon it, there are to be no more early 
walks, or any romantic nonsense about 
playfellows I Lady Eainsforth would 
hardly believe me when I told her Eustace 
was not your brother. She was con- 
vinced he must have been that, at the 
very least, she said." 

It can easily be imagined with what 
regret and disappointment Eustace heard 
of this prohibition, although of course 
Lucv softened it to him as much as she 
could; and his spirits or temper (which- 
ever was in fault) did not improve when 
he heard that several of the guests of the 
preceding evening were to assemble again 
that day for dinner ; when he, in conse- 


qnence, again fell into the background, 
and was obliged to content himself with 
questioning Ned Watson with regard to 
what he had done, and where he had been, 
scarcely attending (it is to be feared) to 
his answers. 

" Oh, I have done very httle," said poor 
Ned ; " I have been kept so deuced close 
to my pen and ink all day : but as far as 
I have seen, it seems to me but a shabby 
sort of a place — nothing but a parcel of 
tumbHng-down rubbishy walls and build- 
ings. I wonder the Pope (who has it, I 
believe, all his own way here) don't set to 
work, and have it cleaned up a Httle, and 
the old buildings repaired, those at least 
which are worth it ; but I believe all his 
monks and friars are lazy dogs, and won't 
work. Then such narrow dirty streets — 
such dirt — yah ! enough to make a cat 
sick ! And as for the Tiber, which there 
is such a rout about, why it is no better 
than a muddy ditch, not to be named in 
the same day as the Thames at Waterloo 


Bridge. However, I was well enough 
amused this afternoon, watching some 
fellow^s playing at a game w^hich I think 
they called nora, or mora, or some such 
thing ; but they talked such abominable 
gibberish, I could not make out a word of 
what they said, nor could I make head 
or tail of the game; but they seemed 
deuced nimble at it with their fingers, and 
if one had known what they were at, there 
might have been some fun betting on the 
winner. I find we are going the very 
beginning of next week to Naples." 

" To Naples !" exclaimed Eustace, with 
a look of dismay. " Oh, not you, so you 
need not be so alarmed," said Ned, wink- 
ing his eye, " for I know what's what, my 
boy, although you are so prodigious close. 
It is only Mr. Lushington and I that are 
going — he is very much taken up just 
now with some money transactions with 
the De Eothschilds' bank, at Naples ; so 
we are going there to settle it all. In- 
deed I believe that is what brought Mr. 

I. L 


Lusliington back to Italy just now ; for, 
between you and me, I do not think lie is 
very fond of foreign parts. He is not 
allowed, you know, to write much at 
present, because of that fulness in his 
head; so he brought me with him for 
that purpose — not for the sight-seeing 
certainly ; but really I don't so much care 
about all that ; one place is very much 
the same as another, and they have capital 
cooks here, I must say, and, for my part, 
I rather like those light wines, which I 
have heard so much abused." 

Bishop Baines' sermon at Jesu and 
Maria, and Vespers at St. Peter's, were 
again that evening discussed, for next day's 
(Sunday's) business, precisely as doubts 
between the play and the opera for the 
next evening's amusement might have 

" A"\"liat will 3^ou do, Eustace ?" Lucy 

Eustace hesitated for a minute, and 
then said, ''If there is afternoon service 


at the English place of worship, I think I 
shall go there." 

" Bless me I" exclaimed Mrs. Lushing- 
ton. " Well, that vrill be going to church 
w4th a vengeance I And do you mean to 
go in the morning too ?" 

'' Of course," rephed he, gathering 
corn-age as he spoke ; '' I suppose all will 
do that." 

'' I suppose all will do as they judge 
best," said Mrs. Lushington, rather sharply; 
and then, fearing apparently that she had 
gone too far, she added, " Church is no 
doubt a very good thing, especially in the 
country, as it is right to set an example 
to the poor people who have nothing 
better they can do than go ; and I always 
make it a point to attend once a day at 
Elsmere Manor. But here at Eome, it is 
quite different ; and as for afternoon ser- 
vice, really if one has been in the morning, 
it is so much the same thing, almost word 
for word, that I cannot, I must own, see 
any use in hurrying away before one has 


half done luncheon, to beo^in it all over 
again. In short, I call that a methodistical 
parade of religion, which I will always set 
my face against. But, as I said before, every 
one to their liking, /(and Mrs. Lushington 
laid a great stress upon the letter /), I 
don't presume to dictate to any one !" 

Sunday came : Mr. Lushington said he 
had letters to write, and Mrs. Lushington 
thouglit she had headache coming on, so 
both declared their intention of staying at 
home. Eustace looked earnestly at Lucy. 
He had anticipated so much pleasure in 
their being once again at church together — 
once more uniting in prayer at the throne 
of Grace — for he now was more sensible 
of the blessing of that privilege than he 
formerly had been, and he felt as if it 
would do him good, compose his mind, and 
even strengthen him in his good resolu- 

"I suppose, mamma, I can go, though 
you do not," said Lucy, as she observed 
Eustace's anxious, imploring look, and 


really wishing to please him, although, it 
must be confessed, rather wondering at his 
extreme anxiety on the subject ; '' Eeid, 
you know, can go with me." 

" Most certainly not,'' was Mrs. Lushing- 
ton's short reply. " Lady Eainsforth said 
the other day (and I am sure I quite agree 
mth her), that the English chmx'h here 
(though dignified by that name) is no more 
than a common hayloft, and that it is perfect 
nonsense calling it a chmxh; and as /think 
it positively wrong to have one's place of 
worship in such a pokey hole, and such an 
out-of-the-way place, as if one was ashamed 
of one's rehgion (which I am proud to say 
I am not), I will not any more countenance 
such disrespect to it by going there." And 
Mrs. Lushington, apparently much pleased 
with her religious sentiments, looked round 
for applause. " And besides," she added, 
" it is so hot and uncomfortable ; all sorts 
of people jumbled together anyhow, not 
having an idea who one's next neighbour 
is, and the seat so hard, and no hassocks, 


and such a fuss about getting places at all, 
that altogether, I rather think I shall do 
what Lady Eainsforth says she means to 
do, which is not to go there any more. At 
all events, I shall keep myself for Vespers 
at St. Peter's this afternoon. I have never 
yet heard that famous singer with the won- 
derful voice, whom all are talking about, 
and they say it is quite beautiful ; and I 
believe there is nothing wrong in what 
they sing. On the contrary-, that it is all 
very religious, and something like our 
Psalms ; and at any rate, as one don't un- 
derstand a w^ord of it, it don't so much 
signify what it is." 

Eustace went alone to church that morn- 
ing. If Lucy did not accompany him, he 
wished for no other companion ; indeed he 
felt so little disposed for communion with 
any of his other fellow-creatures, that, 
fearful of falling in with any of Mrs. Lush- 
ington's fashionable friends, he made his 
way by a circuitous route to that building 
outside the gates of Eome (which so 


sKocked Mrs. Lushington's religions feel- 
ings), then fitted np as a temporary place 
of worship, nntil permission was obtained 
from the Pope to erect one more commo- 
dious and suited to the purpose. Eustace's 
heart was sad, as he pursued his way 
thither alone, and it was stiU sadder when 
he alone returned : for there is a peculiar 
feeling of loneliness, which comes over us 
when attendino- Divine service in a strano-e 
place, when among the hundreds around, 
there is not one familiar face — not one 
being, who is even aware of our existence, 
and where consequently no one is praying 
for us, or with us. 

Eustace, on his retm-n to the hotel, went 
straight up to the sitting-room. He found 
Lucy there alone. She was buried in an 
arm-chair, with a book in her hand, in 
which she was apparently so entirely ab- 
sorbed, that she did not even hear the 
opening of the door. Eustace was there- 
fore almost close to her, before she was 
even aware of his entrance. 


" liow you have made me start ! " she 
exclaimed, when she at length perceived 
him. " I never heard you come in. Where 
have you been? What have you been 
doing ?" 

" AVhere have I been?'* said Eustace, 
rather shortly, " why I have been to 

'' Oh yes, by-the-by, I had forgot — how 
stupid ! Well ! and how did you like Mr. 
Burgess? for I believe he generally 
preaches there." 

" I thought his sermon very impressive, 
and peculiarly useful, I should suppose 
here at Eome." 

" Oh, it was all against the Eoman 
Catholics, I conclude," said Lucy, " for I 
am told he is always preaching at them." 

" It was against the errors of Eomanism, 
not at individuals." 

" Oh !" said Lucy, rather vacantly, her 
thoughts evidently being far away from 
Mr. Burgess and his sermon; and then, 
after a moment's pause, she suddenly ex- 


claimed, with much energy of tone and 
manner, '' Oh Eustace, you must try and 
find time while you are here to read this 
book ! It is so beautiful, so interesting ! 
and indeed, I think so very instructive ; 
and it is at Eome that it should be read, 
for all its merits to be fully appreciated." 

" What is this beautiful book ?" said 
Eustace, as he held out his hand for it ; 
but instead of giving it to him, Lucy drew 
the volume still closer to herself 

"It is not, perhaps, quite a Sunday 
hooh,'' said she, colouring, and still keep- 
ing hold of it as if now afraid of his seeing 
what her studies were. "It is (don't be 
shocked) — it is Corinne !" 

" Corinne !" repeated Eustace, with 
evident chagrin on his countenance, " iN'o, 
indeed, that is not a Sunday book." And 
Neville's question, " Is she a child of 
Grod ?" again rushed painfully to his mind. 

Both were silent for a minute or two. 
At length, Lucy, in rather a discomposed 
tone and manner, said, " Do you then mean 


that we are to do notliing all Sunday but 
read tlie Bible from morning till night ?" 

" Why, I really don't know that one 
can do better, if unable to go to church," 
said Eustace ; " but surely there is a wide 
difference between the Bible and Corinne f" 

" Yes, perhaps there is," said Lucy, 
colouring still more deeply. Then, after a 
moment's pause, starting suddenly from 
her seat, " There," said she, " to show you 
I am not quite as bad as I strongly suspect 
you think me — there, I won't read any 
more of it, at least not to-day ,•" and closing 
the book, she ran and replaced the volume 
on its shelf beside the others. "There, 
am I not good ? will you not forgive me ?" 
and, as she passed Eustace's chair, to re- 
turn to the one she had been occupying, 
she playfully held out her hand to him. 

" Thank you, thank you, dear, dear 
Lucy !" he exclaimed, as he grasped it be- 
tween both of his, "thank you from the 
very bottom of my heart. You do not know 
the pleasure you have given me, the good 



you have done me, and how very, very 
grateful I am to you !" 

" There, now we are friends again, are 
we not ?" said Lucy, with a half-joking, 
half-beseeching smile. " But you must 
o^Ti, Corinne is a beautiful book, and even 
a very edifying one on any of the seven 
days of the week, but Sunday." 

Eustace took no notice of this last re- 
mark ; indeed at that moment he hardly 
dared trust himself to speak at all. 

In a little while, however, having by a 
strong effort gained sufficient courage, but 
still without venturing to look at her, he 
said, " Lucy, do you ever attend the 
Sacrament now ?" 

She looked up, apparently startled, and 
did not immediately answer ; at length she 
slowly said, " Yes, sometimes of course, 
but not very lately — not since we have 
been abroad.'' 

" Mr. Burgess gave it out for next 
Sunday," he continued, still mthout look- 
ing at her. " Would you go next Sunday, 


Lucy ? would you go with me ? it would 
make me so very, very happy, and we may 
not perhaps again ! — he stopped short, a 
deep sigh affecting his voice, and prevent- 
ing him from proceeding in what he was 
about to say. But in a minute he re- 
sumed — " You know my stay here will be 
very short, and one can so little look for- 
ward — we may not be again together, and 
it would give me such very, very great 
pleasure, make me so happy." — Still Lucy 
was silent. — " Lucy, pray answer me !" he 
said, with increased earnestness. — Lucy's 
face was averted, and she seemed occupied 
tracing the pattern of the carpet with her 
foot. At length she abruptly said, 
" Surely, Eustace, you did not formerly 
think so much about all these religious — 
religious things /" she added (evidently at 
a loss for a word), ^'as you do now; I 
think it must be your nameless serious 
friend who has put them into your head." 
" Perhaps you are partly right there," 
he replied, " but remember, since we 


parted I have liad another and most per- 
suasive friend to warn and instruct me, in 
the shape of a dangerous illness. I have 
looked Death in the face, and that is a 
sight calculated to call a man to his senses, 
and make him see the />a.s/ and the future 
in a very different light from what he did 
hefore; and I want you, dear Lucy, to 
henefit by my experience. We have both 
of us, I fear, been very thoughtless, — I 
most culpably so." 

'*You! — In what way?" inquired 
Lucy, looking up in alarm. " What have 
you done ?" 

" Before I go away I must speak to you, 
Lucy," he replied, " I must open my heart 
to you ; but somehow now I feel we are so 
estranged — it is all so different !" 

Lucy's hand was lying on the table 
beside her ; Eustace laid his upon it. 

'' Lucy, you will think of my request, 
will you not? you would make me so 
happy ! and" — 

At that moment the door of the room 


opened, and tlie laquais de place an- 
nounced Lady Emily Maxwell and Sir 
Alexander Melville. 

Eustace hastily started up, and the deep 
crimson in Lucy's cheeks showed plainly 
how much their entrance had discomposed 

" Dear me !" said Lady Emily, laugh- 
ing, " I am afraid we are disturbing a 
very interesting tete-a tete, or is Mr. Grey 
making you confess all your dreadful 
offences ?" 

" Oh no !" said Lucy, attempting also 
to laugh ; " he was only" — and she stop- 
ped short. 

As for Eustace, he at that moment 
completely lost all presence of mind, and 
was totally unable to recall his thoughts, 
or think of a single thing to say, or ex- 
cuse to make for his own and Lucy's 

On entering the room. Sir Alexander 
had given him one short, distant bow of 
recognition, and then pushed past him, 


taking possession of a chair on the other 
side of Lucy. 

" Well, Miss Lushington," he said, as 
he seated himself in it, *' here we are to 
our appointment, but you seem otherwise 
engaged, I think. I hope nothing has 
occurred to make you change your mind 
with regard to Yespers at St. Peter's ? has 
Mr. Grrey been suggesting any more edify- 
ing arrangement for this sabbath after- 
noon : 

" Oh no, not at all," replied Lucy, in a 
hurried manner. 

" It was all settled, I think, that we 
were to go to St. Peter's, but is it not too 
soon for Yespers ?" 

" I thought, I — " and poor Lucy stop- 
ped, quite unable to say what she thought 
about anything; she felt so thoroughly 
put out. 

" Oh, I know it is too early for Yespers," 
said Lady Emily, " but it is such a beau- 
tiful day, I thought we might take a walk 
on the Pincio first." 


" Oh yes, very well," stammered out 
Lucy. " I will go and look for mamma, 
and see what she says," and she hurried out 
of the room. 

Eustace followed her, for he was quite 
unable any longer to comm.and his temper. 

" 'Wi^you not come with us, Eustace ?" 
said Lucy, in a beseeching tone, when 
they had reached the passage. " Do come, 
jyray /" 

" No, not now — not now. I really can- 
not — I had better not. But by-and-by, 
perhaps, I will join you if I can ; and I 
suppose I shall still find you at St. Peter's 
after afternoon service ?" 

" Oh don't look so unlike yourself," 
said Lucy, tears starting to her eyes ; 
" don't be angry with me, for I can't bear 
that, and try for my sake and not be angry 
with — with anybody /" 

Eustace turned and gave her a look that 
went to her heart — and then hurried down 
stairs, and out of the house. 

" That cousin of yours is a very odd 


person, Miss Luskington, is lie not ?" said 
Sir Alexander, when Lucy, equipped for 
tlieir expedition, re-entered the sitting- 
room. " Eather formidable, I think ? — Is 
he in the army or navy ?" 

" He is at Oxford," said Lucy, " study- 
ing for the Church." 

" Ah, I thought so ; I was sure he 
somehow belonged to Oxford ! I saw it at 
once in his countenance ; and I suspect he 
thinks us all sad reprobates, and on the 
high road to the devil, does he not, Miss 
Lusliington ? And he has been giving you 
a lecture on the impropriety of your con- 
duct, am I not right ? He reaUy puts me 
in mind of Eaphael's Cartoon of St. Paul 
preaching at Athens, he looks so angry 
with us all !" 

Lucy tried to laugh, but could not. 

VOL. J. M 



Ned Watson's information respecting Mr. 
Lushington's expedition to Naples proved 
to be quite correct, and they set off to- 
gether in the course of the following week ; 
the former well prepared for his journey 
into a new country, by having provided 
himself with a first-rate travelling cap, 
peculiarly adapted to his carriage slum- 

Everything went on much the same as 
before at Serny's hotel. Sunday came 
round again, and again Eustace went 
alone to the Protestant church, and alone 
attended the Sacrament. 

Vespers at St. Peter's (that is to say, 
the voices of the singers, the performers 
on the different instruments, and the com- 


pany assembled to hear them) having all 
been duly discussed the previous Sunday, 
it Tvas agreed to see what Bishop Baines 
had to say for himself the next, and 
Eustace accompanied Lucy and her cha- 
perone, Lady Emily, to the Jesu and 
Maria, where they were very soon joined 
by Sir Alexander Melville. The preacher, 
in the strongest, but, at the same time, 
most Christian-like spirit and language, 
put before his Protestant hearers (most 
of whom were of com'se English) the 
insult which they offered to religion in 
general, and especially to the Christian 
rehgion (which they professed), when fre- 
quenting the Eoman Catholic places of 
worship, and attending its most sacred 
ceremonies with so much levity and im- 
piety of demeanour. He reminded them, 
that although their rehgious forms were 
different, it was the same Creator, the 
same Redeemer they adored, and that it 
was the same holy temple set apart for 
the service of the one, same God, which 

M 2 


thej desecrated by their irreverent be- 

" Condemn our ceremonies," said the 
preacher, " and reject our pecuhar faith, 
but do not frequent our places of worship, 
in order to wound our feehngs by turn- 
ing what Ave hold sacred into ridicule." 

He did not touch on any of those points 
in which Protestants and Roman Catho- 
lics differ ; he merely demanded respect 
for religion in general, and especially for 
the name of Christ. 

Eustace's attention was riveted on the 
preacher. His earnestness, and, at the 
same time, the truly Christian mildness 
of his address impressed him with the 
deepest feelings of reverence — and al- 
though a most decided Protestant in 
heart and faith, Eustace could not but 
entirely agree with Bishop Baines in 
condemning those of his countrymen, 
who bring disgrace on the very name of 
Protestant and Englishmen, by their sa- 
crilegious ridicule of what their brethren 


in Christ the Eoman Catholics hold 

The expressive countenance of Eustace 
plainly showed how much his attention 
had heen riveted, and his feelings touched 
— and Lucy looked at him with evident 
satisfaction, apparently considering his ap- 
probation of the preacher as some con- 
cession on his part to her less strict Pro- 
testant opinions. 

" Well, Eustace, " said she, eagerly, as 
soon as they had quitted the church, " are 
you not dehghted with Bishop Eaines? 
His voice, his manner, and his aj)pearance 
are all so interesting, so like what one 
fancies of one of the apostles ! so pic- 
turesque, I quite long to draw him !" 

" Oh, yes," said Sir Alexander ; "he 
is remarkably well got uj?, he looks his 
part admu'ably; he (according to what 
you ladies say) dresses very well ; but, 
notwithstanding all that stage effect, I 
beg leave to say, if he and his colleagues, 
his Holiness at the head of them, choose 


to play absurd, ridiculous tricks, and make 
fools of themselves, I sliall take tlie liberty 
of laughing at them, let the bishop say 
what he pleases." 

" I am very glad T heard this sermon/' 
said Eustace, gravely, ''and I trust I shall 
remember his admonitions." 

" Oh, I am so glad !" said Lucy ; " per- 
haps now, then, you will come to Yespers 
at St. Peter's next Sunday afternoon." 

" Oh, that is quite another thing," said 
Eustace, smiling ; "I do not think the 
music there, however beautiful, will teach 
me my duty either to God or man. In- 
deed by going to Yespers at St. Peter's, 
I should do the very thing Bishop Baines 
has been condemning — desecrating their 
religious rites, by converting the Church 
of God into a place of worldly amuse- 

" Oh, pray, for mercy's sake !" exclaimed 
Sir Alexander, " do not let us have a 
second sermon from Bishop Grey ; one in 
an afternoon is really quite enough, even to 


satisfy him, I should have thought. I 
propose, on the contrary, that we should 
try and blow off the effects of the first 
lecture, by driving to the Pamfihi Doria, 
to look at St. Peter's in all the glories of 
a setting sun, which, to my mind, is a 
much better sermon than any wliich 
Bishop Baines, or the Pope himself, can 
get up ; and it will have the additional 
advantage of being shorter than most 
sermons are, for the sun is getting low, 
so we must not dawdle." 

" Oh, yes," said Lucy, eagerly ; '' Eus- 
tace has not been there yet, and the view 
is beautiful, particularly at sunset." 

Lady Emily also readily agreed, and 
her carriage, which was the one in at- 
tendance, being called up, she, Lucy, and 
Mr. Maxwell got in, Eustace being then 
at Lucy's side ; but Sn Alexander had 
ordered it otherwise, and following close 
behind Mr. Maxwell—" WiU you admit 
me as an agreeable fourth?" he said, 
and Avithout waiting for an answer, he 


sprang into the carriage, the door was 
shut, and they drove off. 

The blood rose to Eustace's face, and 
he bit his Hp with vexation. 

" Oh, but Eustace !" he heard Lucy 
exclaim, as the carriage started, and she 
looked anxiously after him. He could 
have stopped the driver, and taken pos- 
session of the empty seat beside him; 
but he was too angr}^, and, at that mo- 
ment, too proud ,• and he walked on 
scarcely knowing wliither he went, till he 
found himself amid the ruins of the Forum, 
his favourite soHtary walk. By degrees his 
passion cooled ; he repeated to himself 
Lucy's last words — " OA, hut Eustace ! '' 
he recalled her anxious look ; he remem- 
bered her former petition to him — " To 
try and not be angry with anybody ; " 
and he subdued his temper ! But never 
had such Christian forbearance cost him 
so much effort — never before had ]3ride, 
in his gentle nature, contended so fiercely 
for the mastery. 


Whether in consequence of any jealous 
feeling, or merely from the general wish 
to torment, Sir Alexander was evidently 
always bent on separating Lucy and 
Eustace, and in consequence was con- 
tinually suggesting (apparently for that 
purpose) expeditions on horseback into 
the Campagna and other distant excur- 
sions in the neighbourhood, from whicb 
poor Eustace was necessarily excluded : 
his purse, although replenished by Mrs. 
Grrey, previous to liis departure, to the 
very utmost of her means, not allowing 
of his hhing horses and conveyances ; and 
therefore many a day, when he saw Lucy 
gallop off with her new friends to some 
of the interesting objects in the vicinity 
of Eom.e, Eustace was left to take his 
sohtary rambles among its ruins. 

And most delightful those rambles 
would have been to him, had his mind 
been more at hberty to enjoy them. But 
when Lucy was out of his sight, she 
was more than ever present to his 


tliouglits, and many an evening when 
tliey met, after their separate clay's ex- 
cursions, Eustace could hardly tell where 
he had been, or what he had seen ; and it 
was a chance he did not answer Lucy's in- 
quiries by, — " I have been to the dear 
old grey church at Elsmere Manor." 

Thus the days — indeed the weeks — 
flew by, with more or less of pleasure, 
more or less of trial, to Eustace ; and, as 
the period named for his return to Eng- 
land with his intended fellow-traveller, 
Ned Watson, drew near, those his mind's 
wanderings to the churchyard at Elsmere 
became more and more frequent. 

For nearer and nearer approached the 
time for his dreaded confession to his 
uncle ; and, in consequence, of his probable 
final separation from Luc}^ when he would 
also have the misery of leaving her in the 
hands of those her new careless worldly 
friends, with no one to guard her from 
their pernicious influence ; and, what was 
worse than all, in daily intercourse with 


tliat odious Sir Alexander Melville, whose 
wish to make himself agreeable to her 
was, to poor Eustace's jealous fancy, quite 
evident, and at the sound of whose name 
and voice his very blood now curdled, 
from the dread of not having sufficient 
command over his temper, when treated 
by him with a sort of careless, easy im- 
pertinence, much more difficult to bear 
than open insult ; any resentment or re- 
taliation only making the victim of it 
appear ridiculous. 



It was now holy week, and the last of 
Eustace's stay at Eome. Mr. Lushington 
and liis companion had returned from 
Naples, and immediately after the sights 
of Easter Day, Eustace and Ned Watson 
were together to commence their journey 

Eustace attended, sometimes alone, 
sometimes with Lucy and her friends, the 
various ceremonies taking place at this 
time at Eome, as a study of the Eoman 
Cathohc rehgion, few of which impressed 
him ^ith awe or devotion. All such feel- 
ings, however, are rendered impossible by 
the u'reverent behaviour of the many 
foreigners who visit them in precisely the 
same spirit which they would a common 


drama on the stas^e. But after all, in 
what do thej differ from such scenic 
representations ? and in what direct con- 
tradiction is such mere theatrical religion 
to our Lord's own words, " God is a 
spirit, and he is to be worshipped in spirit 
and in truth !" 

On the Thursday (the evening before 
Good Friday) all the party at Serni's went 
to see (among the many other rehgious cere- 
monies pecuhar to this season) the wash- 
ing of the pilgrims' feet at the Pellegrini 
de la Trinita, where fully two hundi-ed pil- 
grims, from Germany and different parts 
of Italy, are fed and lodged, during the 
three days and nights previous to the 
benediction, and plenary indulgences be- 
stowed upon them by the Pope on Easter 

At this convent the pilgrims are seated 
in rows, waited upon, and their feet 
washed, by persons of all ranks, and aU in 
precisely the same dress, — a black gown 
and wliite apron and cap ; so that the 


princess, even of royal blood, and her 
servant, are not to be distinguislied from 
each other, all performing the same menial 
office for these wandering pilgrims, who 
are of the lowest grades of society, and 
certainly not particularly inviting in their 

'' What horrid humbug !" exclaimed Sir 
Alexander. " This is stage effect indeed ! 
and beats even Bishop Baines, with his 
sanctified looks and picturesque costume. 
Such an ostentation of humility and 
charity !" 

" I must own I do not see any appear- 
ance of ostentation in it," said Eustace ; 
for no one is to be recognised. The ser- 
vant may identify her titled mistress in 
the kneeUng figure next to her, performing 
the same act of humility, but no one else 
can. I allow it is an absurd, mistaken, 
literal interpretation of an injunction in- 
tended for a principle of action for every 
day and moment of om- lives, and which, 
therefore, cannot be fulfilled by one act of 


humiliation one day in the year ; but I do 
not think it is Christian charity on our 
part to condemn those who make the 
mistake of being guilty of ostentation. I 
think one is rather inclined to pity their 
narrow-minded ignorance ; and they have 
quite errors enough to answer for, without 
imputing to them motives they have not." 
" And so you really admu'e all this 
humbug ?" rejoined Sir Alexander, with 
a most provoking, contemptuous smile. 
" Oh, my good friend, I am sorry to see 
you so very far gone ; and I shall not be 
at all surprised to hear soon of your dis- 
covering that your salvation depends on 
imitating these worthies, with their tubs 
and towels ! I beg I may be duly in- 
formed when the ceremony is to take 
place, as I should like of all things to see 
you, with your shht sleeves tucked up, 
working away at some tramping beg- 
gar's dirty feet ; but I strongly advise 
you to adopt the precaution even his 
Holiness does for the sake of his stomach. 


and take care to have them well scoured 
first. I dare say you will set the fashion 
at Oxford on your return, and that we 
shall hear of all the big-wigs there turned 

There are few things more trying to 
the temper than being accused of holding 
opinions totally contrary to the truth, and 
in a sort of supercilious tone and manner, 
which renders formal denial ridiculous 
and absurd, and yet to which silence ap- 
pears to give consent, or, at least, which 
seems to confess we have nothing to say 
in our own defence. The latter impres- 
sion, Eustace was, however, determined, 
should not, at all events, be left on the 
mind of Lucy ; so summoning courage, 
he said, " "Whatever I might have thought 
of the Eoman Catholic religion before 
coming to Eome, having now been be- 
hind the scenes, and seen all the ropes 
and pulleys by which the stage effect is 
produced, I certainly should not say ' see- 
ing is believing ' — quite the contrary." 


'' I do not know what you mean about 
ropes and pulleys/' said Mrs. Lushington, 
" for I can't say I have seen any ; but I 
cannot but agree with Sir Alexander in 
thinking this feet- washing is not so ver}' 
fine; on the contrary, it strikes me as 
very dirty. Whj could not all these 
ladies in their black gowns, if they wished 
to be kind to those trampers, have given 
each of them a bit of soap and an old 
towel, and let them go and make them- 
selves decently clean at some public-house 
near before they came to dinner ? I, for my 
part, however, make it a rule never to 
give anything to trampers, for it is only 
encouraging begging and idleness ; and I 
wonder the Pope don't at once put all this 
sort of tiling down, for I suppose he could. 
Well, now I think we have had enough 
of aU this slopping and scrubbing, and T 
propose going home, as we are to begin 
our sight-seeing again so early to-morrow 
morning; though if to-morrow's sights are 
no more worth seeing than this evening's, 

VOL. I. N 


I don't mucli think I shall be at the 

In the way home, the carriage had to 
stop to make way for a procession in 
honour of the Virgin, that is, of a hideous 
dressed-up doll, all bedizened with mock 
jewels and tinsel. 

" I suppose you think this, too, very 
edifying," said Sir Alexander, addressing 
Eustace in the same supercilious, pro- 
voking manner. But he, finding his 
temper again rising, wisely took no notice 
of the remark. 

"Well, I declare," said Mrs. Lush- 
ington, " I think this very pretty ; the 
flowers, and the girls with their white 
veils, and the little flags ; and if the poor 
creatures like to worship the Virgin, why 
should they not ? I am sure it does no 
one any harm, and you must own it has 
fall as much sense in it as our Jack-in- 
the-Green, and May-day Queen, and all 
that sort of thing, and it is not so noisy 
and vulgar." 


It was impossible not to laugh at the 
strange confusion in Mrs. Lushington's 
mind, between the religious procession 
in honour of the Virgin, and our old 
English saturnalia in honour of May-day, 
both which seemed to be considered by 
her in the same rehgious light ; but the 
extreme ignorance and absurdity of her 
remarks was of use at the moment, as it 
served to check Sir Alexander's ever- 
ready persecution of Eustace. 

When the party reached the hotel, the 
latter (knowing that the usual visitors 
were again to meet that evening in Mrs. 
Lushington's apartments), instead of ac- 
companying the rest up-stairs, wandered 
away by himself, wishing to "commune 
with his own heart and be still," endea- 
vouring to find, amid the many open 
places of worship, something which would 
impress him with the feehngs of devotion 
so grateful to a chafed spirit ; but in most 
he found only that same sort of theatrical 
representation going on, from which he 

N 2 


turned away in disgust. At length lie 
passed the foot of a flight of steps lead- 
ing into a church dimly lit, for, except in 
one spot in the centre of the building, 
there was no Hght at all. He entered, 
and as he approached the place from 
w^hence the Hght proceeded, he saw, ex- 
t-ended on the pavement, a representation, 
as large as life, of the dead Saviour ; the 
blood seeming still quite fresh in the 
wounds of his lacerated hands and feet, 
and an expression of agonizing pain con- 
tracting the features. The lamps which 
were burning round this figure, were the 
only hght in the church ; and at different 
distances around, were about a dozen per- 
sons kneehng on the pavement, many 
scarcely visible in the deep gloom of the 
building, all apparently entirely absorbed 
in prayer, so that no one seemed to notice 
the entrance of Eustace : there was no ofii- 
ciating priest — no ceremonial form going 
on — not a sound to be heard. Eustace 
was deeply impressed by the scene before 


him, and scarcely knowing what he did, 
by a sudden impulse, he, too, sank upon 
his knees, for to one like him, in a manner 
new to strong rehgious feelings, the effect 
was most impressive. The weU-repre- 
sented lifeless body — the stUl bleeding 
wounds — wounds endured for him ! " Can 
it be that we Protestants are in error," 
thought Eustace, " and that this rehgion 
of the senses is, after all, right, as better 
fitted to our fallen nature, or is it a 
temptation of Satan ?" He was painfiiUy 
bewildered in mind, and so nervously 
excited, he dared not even turn again 
towards the figure. 

When, at length, he became more cahn, 
he called to mind how that wounded 
Saviour had parried the temptations of 
Satan by the Word of Grod; he remem- 
bered that one of the first of the Di^^ne 
commands forbids our making to ourselves 
ANT graven image, the likeness of any 
thing either in heaven or earth, and of 
falling down to worship it. He remem- 


bered, too, the prophet Isaiah's description 
of the FOLLY of idol worship — " They that 
make a graven image are all of them 
vanity, and their delectable things shall 
not profit. A man heweth down a cedar 
tree ; of part he maketh a graven image, 
and falleth down thereto ; he burneth part 
in the fire, and warmeth himself; and of 
the residue thereof, he maketh a god, even 
his graven image, and falleth down nnto 
it, and worshippeth it, and saith unto it, 
Deliver me, for thou art my god." 

The momentary efiect produced upon 
Eustace's senses and imagination by this 
striking scene, had passed away, and what 
had at first impressed him with so much 
awe, now struck him as an impious pro- 
fanation of all that was most sacred. The 
thought of the sacrilegious hands which 
had presumed to fashion the form of 
Him who is invisible in the highest hea- 
vens, and who dwells in light which no 
human eyes can reach unto, or look 
upon, quite horrified liim. 


Still Eustace knelt ; but now he wor- 
shipped " in spirit and in truth." He 
faintly murmured to himself, '"I know 
that my Eedeemer liveth/ and I must 
seek liim not here fashioned by men's 
hands, but at the right hand of God, 
' where He ever liveth to make interces- 
sion for me ' — yes, even for me, his poor, 
weak, erring creature." 

Long and fervent were the prayers 
Eustace then offered up, for himself, and 
for her he so loved, and whom he knew to 
be set in the midst of so many and great 
dangers. He did not pray to have his 
earthly wishes granted, he left all to the 
will of his heavenly Father ; and so fervent 
had been his prayers, and his mind so 
raised above this world, that the calm and 
even happy expression of his countenance 
struck Lucy on his return to the hotel. 

" Wliere have you been ?" said she, as 
she looked upon his placid features. "I 
am sure you have seen something that 
has pleased you." 


" I have felt something that has pleased 
me," he replied, " and I have planned 
something for to-morrow evening wliich I 
hope will please you, too. You have 
often talked of going to see the Colosseum 
by moonlight, and to-morrow evening the 
moon will be in exactly the right state to 
show off the ruins : try if you cannot get 
that arranged. I have set my heart on 
going there — with you," he added, in a 
lower voice, and in a particularly earnest 
tone ; " and my days, as you know, are 
now so few. This is Friday, and your 
father, I find, has fixed on Monday for 
my traveUing-companion and myself to 
leave Rome." 

Lucy started. " So soon ! " she ex- 
claimed, tears rushing into her eyes ; 
" you seem but just come. It has been 
terribly short. 1 am almost sorry now 
you have come at all, it wiH be such a 
blank !" 

" Oh, Lucy, you have other friends 
now to fill up the blank," said Eustace, in 


rather a reproacliful tone. " It is not 
like Elsmere, where you had no one else ! 
Here I see so little of you, except when 
surrounded by your new friends ; it is 
hardly ever we are together, as at this 
moment." For by this time, to Eustace's 
inexpressible relief, all the usual evening 
visitors had repaired to their separate 
apartments in the hotel, and there was no 
one in the room, except Mrs. Lushington, 
extended on the sofa, and apparently 
dreaming of wavsh-tubs^ May-day queens, 
and Jack in the Green. 

" Indeed, I must say, it is partly your 
o^Ti fault, Eustace," said Lucy ; " you 
are grown so — so — unsociable — so grave 
— so unhke yourself" 

" Perhaps I am," replied he, in a dejected 
tone. Then, after a minute, " I must 
speak to you, Lucy, before I go away. I 
have something on my mind I must make 
known to you before we part." 

" I was sure of it," said Lucy, looking 
earnestly and anxiously in his face, and 


laying lier hand on his arm ; " I was sure 
something was wrong. Oh, Eustace, 
what can it be ? tell me now." 

" No, dearest, not now ;" and once 
again he ventured to take that dear hand 
in his, " but to-morrow evening, if you 
will separate yourself from your neio 
friends for a few moments, I will tell you 

Almost unconsciously, Eustace had 
spoken these words in a reproacliful tone, 
laying a stress on the word neio. Lucy 
felt it so, and was unable to reply. 

" Eing the bell for candles," said Mrs. 
Lushington, as, suddenly waking from 
her slumbers, she left the couch ; " for I 
am dead tired, and we may as well all go 
to bed as sit stupid here." 

Lucy started up from her seat, and 
hurried to the further end of the room, 
apparently busying herself with her draw- 
ing books, in order to conceal her emo- 
tion; for Eustace's words had filled her 
with vague alarm, besides wounding her 


feelings. When tliey parted for the night, 
Eustace, as usual, held out his hand to 
her, but it was just then more than Lucy's 
nerves could stand, and, turning away 
from him, she hastened to her own room, 
without even giving him a parting look. 

The visit to the Colosseum was arranged 
for the next evening, as Eustace had pro- 
posed. It was a lovely night ; the moon 
shone brightly through fleecy clouds, 
which, occasionally passing over it, only 
made the efiect more beautiful, when she 
came out clear in her full splendour, on a 
sky, even at night, of such deep yet 
brilliant blue, as no one can even imagine 
who is not acquainted with an Italian 

Many had joined the projected evening 
party, which was all the more favourable 
for Eustace's plan of separating Lucy from 
the rest, in order to obtain, at least, a few 
minutes' private conversation with her; 
for he felt he could not and should not 
make his confession to her father with- 


out at least informing her of liis inten- 

Sir Alexander, of course, as usual did 
his best to counteract Eustace's wishes ; 
but this evening he was resolved to secure 
Lucy to himself, and, seizing her hand 
the moment she had left the carriage, he 
drew her arm within his, and in the first 
confusion of settUng loho was to take care 
of who, and of dispersing into the different 
galleries of the ruin, he hurried her off, 
and never stopped till the sound of voices 
was no longer heard, and they reached the 
centre of the arena, close to the large 
stone cross, now standing where formerly 
the Christian victims were abandoned to 
the fury of the wild beasts, and at which 
spot — being at that moment in deep 
shade — they were secure from observation. 

Poor Lucy trembled with agitation. 
" What is it?" said she; " what can it 
be you have to say to me ? I can't say 
how you have alarmed me." 

" Be composed," said Eustace, taking 


lier passive hand ; " I have not any thing 
very di-eadful to tell you — in fact, nothing 
new, nothing you don't know already ; it 
is rather a new light, in which I see what 
has already occurred." Poor Eustace 
stopped, for, in truth, he hardly knew 
how to proceed, how to put in words, 
what he had to say. 

" Oh, I am sure it is something your 
new friend has been putting into your 
head, and frightening you about," said 
Lucy ; " I wish with all my heart you 
had never met with him ; for I am sure 
he has been a cruel friend to you — indeed, 
I must say to us both ! He has so 
changed you !" 

" Changed me ? " repeated Eustace ; 
'' perhaps in some ways, but not in one, 
Lucy ;" and he took her hand in both his 
own, the next moment, however, hastily 
putting it from him. '' But I did not 
ask you to let me speak to you to-night, 
in order to tell vou how dearly I love you 
— that you know welL Luc v." 


" But — but what?" she eagerly inquired, 
becoming more and more nervous. 

" But," resumed Eustace, gathering 
courage as he spoke, " to say that I am 
now aware that — that I should never have 
told you, how with a love far sm^passing 
a brother's love, I loved you." 

" Why not ?" inquired Lucy, with the 
most touching look of innocent, confiding 

" Because," continued Eustace, speaking 
very quick, " because I have drawn you 
into a clandestine engagement; I have 
gained your aifections — obtained your 
word — all unknown to your parents. I 
who have nothing in this world I can call 
my own — who am a beggar, living, I may 
say, on yom- father's charity, who, had he 
known of my thus secretly securing your 
affections, actually betrothing you as my 
wife, would have turned me from his 
door. Oh, Lucy ! I have sinned grie- 
vously, sinned against you and my kind 
benefactor ; and I have sinned almost past 


reparation, for even now, so strongly 
selfish is my affection, I can't help still 
hoping that you love me, love one whom 
you must be forbidden to think of any 

" Oh, dear Eustace !" exclaimed Lucy, 
catching hold of his hand, and pressing it 
within her own, " do not talk in this 
odd way ; you extorted no promise from 
me ; if you had, was I not ready to make 
it? if you did wrong, so did I." 

" No ! " replied Eustace ; " you so 
young, so innocent, so trusting, ignorant 
of so many things I should have thought 
of; no, the blame is on me. But the past 
cannot now be recalled ; all that remains 
for me to do is to confess all, for such 
deceit must not go on — all must be told. 
I must not " — and Neville's solemn words 
rushed to his memory — "I must not 
engage in the sacred ministry, with false- 
hood and treachery in my heart." 

" Surely," said Lucy, almost frightened 
at his vehemence, "you see all this in too 


strong, too serious a light. Oh, it is all 
that cruel friend !" 

" Oh, no I he is my real friend, Lucy. 
I only wonder at my moral blindness, my 
folly indeed, in not sooner seeing my con- 
duct in the light I now do. But there is 
no use in dwelling on the past — all that 
remains for me now, is to make what 
reparation I can by confessing my offence 
to your father." 

" To my father !" exclaimed Lucy, terror 
depicted in her countenance ; " sm-ely you 
will not do that ! Oh, pray consider how 
stern, how awful he is when angry !" 

" That is the very reason why I must 
brave his anger. I had intended acknow- 
ledging my offence before I arrived here, 
but it was impossible. I was never alone 
wdth him on the journey; then he went 
immediately to ISTaples, and I was too 
glad to catch at all those blessed reprieves, 
as I felt these delays to be. But then 
the longer the dreaded moment was put 
Tfif, tlie more impossible the effort became ; 



SO at last last I resolved not to attempt to 
make mj confession by word of mouth, 
but to write all to your father, when 
I should leave Eome. And oh, Lucy ! 
that moment is now come — only two 
more days, and I shaU. be gone ! only 
two more days, and I shall perhaps 
never — " 

At that moment, a loud burst of voices 
and laughter, apparently not very far dis- 
tant, made Lucy start up from her seat. 
" Oh, they are coming ! let us go away 
from here. I cannot just now face them," 
she exclaimed, in alarm. 

" Hush, hush," said Eustace, in a low 
voice ; " they cannot see us ; wait till we 
know what direction they take. — How 
happy they all are !" he added, with a 
deep sigh. " We were — / was — once as 
happy, as gay ! but in my happiness I 
forgot my duty, and so brought on my 
own punishment." 

" Don't speak! don't speak!" said Lucy. 
Both were silent for a minute or two. 

VOL. I. o 


The sound of voices again died away, 
and Eustace continued : "I have only one 
consolation, that I extorted no promise 
from you. That ring, which in my mad- 
ness I put upon your finger, you are, you 
know, at liberty to return whenever you 
will ; then all will be as if it were not — 
never had been ! Even now, Lucy, if you 
repent, even now^ — " and he held out his 
trembling hand towards her. 

''ISTever! never!" exclaimed Lucy, fer- 
vently ; " how can you think — " 

" You must not, you shall not say that 
word, never. I must not listen to it," 
Eustace continued, in a wild, excited man- 
ner. '' The only amends I can make for 
my past selfish, thoughtless conduct, is to 
listen to no such expressions of affection 
from you noio. I leave aU in the hands of 
our Heavenly Father. If He sees fit. He 
can bring even my heart's wildest desires 
to pass ; if not — " Eustace's voice became 
choked with emotion. 

"Oh, Eustace!" exclaimed Lucy, "how 


good you are ; far, far too good for me, I 

He did not seem to hear lier, but con- 
tinued with his own thoughts. " In two 
days we part ! in two short days ; and 
when to meet again, Grod only knows ! I 
shall, of course, no longer be permitted to 
look on Elsmere as my home as formerly. 
I shall, perhaps, be forbidden ever to see 
you again. Oh ! my Grod, help me !" 

At that moment, there arose amid the 
ruins a chorus of voices, chanting the 
Evening Hymn. The sounds thrilled to 
the inmost soul of Eustace ; he fervently 
clasped his hands together, as he joined in 
the sacred words : — 

" Teach me to lire, that I may dread 
The grave as little as my bed ; 
Teach me to die, that so I may 
Eise glorious at the awful day." 

As the last verse was sung, the sounds 
grew more and more faint. " Lucy," 
said Eustace, his voice still tremulous, 
" you remember that evening above two 

o 2 


years ago, when we sat together in the 
churchyard at Elsmere ? It was then that, 
in the thoughtless selfishness of my heart, 
I took advantage of your ignorance — your 
innocrnce — and spoke words which never 
should have been spoken by me to you. 
Here now, in presence of that cross," 
pointing to the emblem of the Christian 
hope, which rose in the middle of the 
ruins, "before that cross, I now make 
my confession. Oh ! may it be accepted, 
and may I be forgiven." 

Again sounds were heard approaching ; 
Eustace even fancied he heard his name. 
He started up, and almost convulsively 
straining Lucy to his heart — " One parting 
kiss from your old playfellow I" he ex- 
claimed ; " and now farewell, dearest — 
dearest Lucy, perhaps — " He could say 
no more. Several of the gay party sud- 
denly appeared issuing from one of the 
arches of the ruin, all talking and laughing. 

" Oh, there they are !" exclaimed a voice, 
which always grated on the ear of Eustace. 


"There they are, and Miss Lnsliington, 
no doubt, quite safe, for slie is under the 
holy guidance of Pope Eustace the First, 
who has, of course, been delivering to her 
an edifying homily on the wickedness of 
the heathens of yore ; who, as tradition 
tells us, in this very place let loose the 
wild heastises on poor St. Paul ! Oh no ! 
by-the-by, I believe I am wrong, and be- 
traying my want of clergy, and that it was 
not at all St. Paul, nor was it here. But 
no matter, it would equally serve as a text 
to preach from, and from which to diverge 
to the degenerate heathen Christians of the 
present day, and all their naughty prac- 
tices ; and so end with an exhortation to 
' come out from among them, and be 
separate ;' and I am sure, Miss Lushing- 
ton, you have most scrupulously conformed 
to that injunction this evening, for we 
have seen nothing of you since our arrival. 
But every one seems agreed it has been a 
charming party of pleasure, and I am sure 
we all feel much indebted to Mr. Grrey for 


having suggested it ; and as lie seems so 
capital a cicerone, I hope he will think of 
something else equally agreeable to all'' 

No one commented on this speech, and 
Lucy suggesting to Lady Emily that it 
was late, and that Mrs. Lushington would 
be expecting them back, the carriages were 
summoned, and the whole party left the 
ruin. How, or with whom Eustace 
went home, Lucy knew not, for she saw 
nothing more of him that night. 



The first rays of the rising sun were just 
tinging the top of Mount Soracte with 
crimson, when Eustace, on the morning 
after Easter Sunday, opened the door of 
his ovni room at Serni's hotel, and slowly 
walked along the corridor leading to the 
other apartments belonging to Mr. Lush- 
ington. There is something peculiarly 
dismal in the profound silence of a house, 
at that very early hour in the morning ; 
the death-Hke quiet, the forlorn feeling of 
loneliness and neglect, almost of banish- 
ment ! Ko kind morning welcome — every 
door closed to us ! As Eustace passed 
that of Lucy's room, he stopped — he 
clasped his hands together, and his Hps 
moved. Again he passed on; but once 


more turned, as if taking a last farewell- 
look at that closed door. He then hurried 
on to the apartment where Mr. Lnshing- 
ton usually sat and wrote. He went into 
it, and deposited a sealed letter he had in 
his hand on the writing-box which stood 
on the table, beside other letters, which 
had that morning come for his uncle by 
the post. He then went on to the general 
sitting-room. He stood still, and looked 
round on every object, as if his memory 
was taking an inventory of all its contents. 
He opened Lucy's portfbho, gazing on 
each drawing and sketch. Suddenly the 
colour deepened on his cheek — he came to 
one which seemed to have been a study of 
a piece of the Colosseum, and apparently 
taken very near the spot where they had 
together sat on the previous Saturday 
evening, the cross forming a prominent 
featm-e in the foreground. At the corner 
of the paper was Lucy's name, and a date, 
February 17, 1828. It was the date of 
his arrival at Eome. Tears stai'ted into 


his eyes. " How soon it is all over !" he 
ejaculated to himself. He sought for a 
piece of blank paper ; and having wTitten 
upon it, " Eustace, Easter-eve," he put it 
in the place of the drawing, carrying off 
his prize. As he was again tying up the 
portfoho, his travelling companion, Ned 
Watson, ready equipped, with his famous 
traveUing-cap on his head, and carefully 
muffled up with a large comforter round 
his throat, entered. 

" What a bore this getting up by day- 
break is !" he exclaimed. " And I dare 
say the fellow need not have called me for 
an hour to come. They are so officious 
when it is to be disagreeable, and I was 
in such a famous snooze ! Oh, but by 
jingo !" he added, looking out of the 
window, "I do believe there is our car- 
riage driving up to the door. My ! what 
a turn out 1 How different from our 
smart boys at the ' Green Man' at Bamet ! 
Grey ! onl}^ do look at the fellow — and the 
harness ! Grey, I say ! do come here !" 


Grey heeded hiin not — heard him not. 
" And are they going to send us off with- 
out any breakfast ?" exclaimed poor Ned. 
" If ever I saw the hke ! Well, for my 
part, I can't say I care if I never see 
Eome again, and such a work as is made 
about it !" 

The laquais de place came in to say 
every tiling was ready. 

" Very well," said Ked ; "I suppose 
you are ready, Grrey, so I will go down 
and settle myself comfortably." 

Eustace took one more look round the 
room, and then began slowly to descend 
the stairs. 

" Monsieur^ Monsieur, votre manteau !'' 
cried the laquais de place, running after 
him, with it on his arm, " il fait tres froid 
ce matin — un \alain vent de bise." 

" 0, merci," said Eustace, as he put 
something into the man's hand, " Je 
I'avois entierement oublie." 

" Buon viaggiO; buon viaggio, milord," 
said the man, kissing his hand in grati- 


tude for liis present, and pouring fortli a 
torrent of Italian good wishes. 

Eustace hurried from him, and sprang 
into the cabriolet, in the corner of which, 
Ned Watson was already ensconsed, his 
cap dra^vn down over his face ; having, 
apparently, already resumed the slumbers, 
which had been so cruelly that morning 
distm'bed. The postilion cracked his 
whip — the horses set off — Eustace looked 
up once more at the balcony, on which ho 
had first seen Lucy the evening of his 
arrival. In a few minutes more, they 
had passed the gates of Eome ! 

At that spot on the road, where he had 
first perceived St. Peter's on his arrival, 
he looked from the back of the carriage, 
and kept his eye on its dome, until, at a 
tm-n of the road, it disappeared enth'cly. 

" Do sit still. Grey," cried Ned Watson, 
in an impatient tone, " you are the most 
troublesome, fidgety person in a carriage 
I ever met with, there is no peace for you. 
You are always wanting to see something 


or otlier you can't see. Cannot you be 
contented with looking at what is before 
you without always peering after some- 
thing else?" 

Eustace disturbed his fellow-traveller no 
more ; there was nothing more to be seen, 
or done, or to be cared for : nothing but 
to make up his mind to an existence, a 
future which appeared to him now as a 
total blank. For what had he to look 
to ? Nothing ! Lucy — the old grey 
church at Elsmere — all was at an end ! 
" At this very moment," thought he to 
himself, " my uncle is reading my letter — 
and Lucy — dear, dear Lucy ! What will 
he say to her ? he is so stern — so cold ! 
I should not have left her to bear alone 
the whole burst of his displeasm-e. Oh, 
how selfish I have been ! when — when 
shall I ever do or say a thing, without 
having afterwards to repent ?" 

The travellers made out their journey 
in safety, reaching London late one even- 
ing. They took leave of each other at the 


coacli-office door, Eustace immediately se- 
curing for himself a place in the mail, just 
setting off for Oxford. 

" WeU," said Ked, " if I were you, I 
would, at least, have got one good night's 
sleep in a good English bed, and a good 
Enghsh breakfast next mornuig, before 
setting off again ; but you are the oddest 
fellow I ever met with ! I really think 
you care about nothing ! " 

On his arrival at Oxford, Eustace im- 
mediately hm-ried to the post-office ; there 
was only one letter for him, it was from his 
mother ; none with a foreign post-mark ; 
indeed, there scarcely could possibly have 
been any from Eome, so rapid had been 
their journey ; but his anxious, feverish 
imagination was not just then in a state 
for correct calculation. His first impulse, 
in his disappointment, was to put Mrs. 
Grrey's letter into his pocket, but the next 
minute, shocked at his seeming indiffer- 
ence towards that doating mother, he 
opened it. 


She was all anxiety to liear of liis safe 
return to England, and his restored health 
— of his being grown " fat and rosy." 
Poor Mrs. Grey had fondly interpreted 
this proposed journey to Eome into an 
encouragement, on the part of her brother, 
of his nephew's attachment to his daughter 
— which attachment, she had, she knew, 
only now first discovered, but which, no 
doubt, Mr. Lushington was well aware of, 
and the promise of the hving of Elsmere 
appeared to her stiU further to corroborate 
that idea. For she could not believe it 
possible that he could be ignorant of that 
which she had so soon discovered, and if 
aware of all she now was, he surely would 
never have proposed this expedition to 
Eome had he not been favourably dis- 
posed towards their mutual attachment — 
for mutual, it must be — who could know 
Eustace and not love him ? Who could 
look at his noble, open countenance, and 
not admire him? Her letter, therefore, 
although not venturing to allude to all 


these circumstances wliicli slie had so cle- 
Hghtfully arranged in her own mind, and 
so much to her own satisfaction, was 
written in such a joyful, thankful, hopeful 
strain, it jarred painfully on poor Eus- 
tace's depressed spirits ; and he returned it 
still but half read into his pocket. It was 
in a blank, disappointed mood, therefore, 
that he turned his steps towards Oriel 
College, and ascended the stairs to his 
own rooms. There is a cold, unkind look 
about an apartment which has been for 
some time unoccupied, and whicli is any- 
thing but cheering to the spirits on enter- 
ing it. All objects connected ^dth our 
daily occupations have been cleared away. 
Nothing seemed to welcome us. Eustace 
had lately been living with his fellow- 
creatures, in daily intercourse with the 
being he most loved on earth, and al- 
though his trials and vexations had been 
also nearly daily, still he had enjoyed the 
felicity of constantly beholding Lucy's 
much-loved countenance, of hearing the 


music of her voice. Now the dead silence 
of liis room, the empty chairs, all in their 
allotted places against the walls, occupied 
only by his portmanteau and travelHng 
bag — the bare table in the centre of the 
apartment — all gave him a feeling of lone- 
liness he could not endure, and he hm-ried 
again down stairs, and out of the house, 
to seek his friend Neville, although ner- 
vously dreading the interview. 

Nothing could be kinder than Neville's 
reception of him. 

" Well, Grey," said he, after the first 
greetings were over, " I hope your Itahan 
trip has done you good. I think you do 
look rather better, and I hope you are not 
converted — perverted, I mean." 

" Oh, no !" said Eustace, in a most 
determined tone, " I am come back a 
more decided Protestant than ever." 

" God be thanked !" said Neville, ear- 
nestly ; "I was rather fearful about you, 
I must confess ; your mind was in so fever- 
ish a state when you left England, I 


thouglit, possibly, a form of worship, so 
mucli addressed to tlie imagination and 
senses, might have attracted you." 

" Oh, no !" replied Eustace, in rather 
a vacant tone, and suddenly the blood 
rushing into his face, he added, — " and I 
am come back to you, I trust, more 
worthy of your kindness, than when I 
left you." 

Neville looked at him with an anxious, 
inquiring expression. 

" Yes," continued Eustace, " I have 
confessed my sin." 

Neville grasped his hand. " Thank 
God again for that ! but I was sm^e you 
would, and that I was not to be disap- 
pointed in you." Then observing the 
strong emotion painted on his young 
friend's countenance — " Take courage," 
said he, as with a kind smile, he laid his 
hand on the arm of Eustace ; " time, and 
new and higher objects of interest, will 
soften down, and at length obliterate, all 
those feelings now so painful to you ; and 

VOL. I. p 


you will look back upon tliis, your mo- 
ment of delirium, as on a 'tale tliat is 
told.' Few of us entirely escape the 
fiery trial, and ' there hath no temptation 
taken you, but such as is common to man' 
— remember those words of St. Paul, Grey ; 
you must read hard now to make up 
for lost time. You have your degree to 
take ; and the necessary study in prepara- 
tion for your examination mil soon drive 
all other objects out of your thoughts. 
So we will talk no more on that subject ; 
it is the only way to forget, what must be 

Eustace did not much relish his friend's 
well-meant consolation. Who, when deeply 
in love, can bear to think that the moment 
will ever come, when the delirium of pas- 
sion will cease? and when the sentiment 
which engrosses our whole being Avill have 
passed away ? 

Every feeling revolts at the bare idea of 
such a dreary deadening of the soul — so at 
least thought poor Eustace at that moment. 


It offended him, also, to be told tliat others 
had felt the same as he now felt ; for we 
are jealous even of our trials and afflictions, 
and do not like to think we share thein 
mth the common herd. Eustace plainly 
saw that Neville could not understand liim 
on that subject, and it was never again 
alluded to between them. Strange to sa}^, 
the latter had not ever had the curiosity to 
inquu'e even as to the name of her, who 
acted so prominent a part in his young 
friend's existence. His whole anxiety about 
Eustace had been, to impress upon him 
the principle of strict truth and rectitude : 
that victory over human frailty, had now 
been obtained; the rest, he was sure, 
would cure of itself, and he thought no 
more about what he considered in the light 
of a mere passing boyish fancy. And, 
perhaps, with the generality of young men, 
Neville's plan would have been the best to 
pursue, but not with Eustace Grrey ; he 
indeed applied himself doggedly to his 
studies, but he did so from necessity, and 

p 2 


a sense of duty. But all object, all 
spirit, in his studies was gone. He felt con- 
vinced, that the delightful dream which 
he had related to Lucy that evening in 
Elsmere churchyard, was for ever broken 
— would never come to pass. And stiU 
more to add to his irritation of mind, 
week after week succeeded each other, 
and no answer came from Mr. Lushing- 
ton. Could he not have received his 
" confession ?" Could it have been lost 
amid his many letters and papers ? Should 
he write again? Was he ill? At length, 
the much-wished-for, much-dreaded letter, 
with the Eoman postmark, was put into 
his hand : he hurried home to his own 
rooms to read it unseen ; upon its con- 
tents depended his very existence. It was 
as follows : — 

" My dear Eustace, 

" I DULY received yours of the 26th 
of last month, atod should have answered 
it sooner, but I have had much writing on 


my hands of late, and Ned Watson being 
gone, I have of course no help. You were 
quite right in making me, what you call 
your ' confession :' it confirms me in my 
good opinion of you. Perhaps I was to 
blame in not remembering that such things 
are possible as young boys taking fancies 
for young girls ; however, luckily, no great 
harm is done. I dare say, Lucy missed^ ^^^^ 
old playfellow for a day or two ; but she 
seems quite well and happy, and is amusing 
herself with lier many friends and sight - 
seemgs, from morning to night. I have 
not yet quite fixed my time for retm-ning 
to England, but I should hope to have 
settled my business here by the beginning 
of next month. We shall go straight to 
London, and probably be there for some 
time, as I have taken a house for three 
years, in Stanhope-street. We shall not, 
therefore, be at Elsmere Manor till quite 
the end of the summer, and perhaps now 
{as matters are), it may be as well, you 
should not pay us your usual periodical 


visits there as formerly. I liope you found 
your motlier well. 

" Yours truly, 


" P.S. It seems that Mr. Woodford's re- 
moval from Elsmere is not at all as settled 
a business as I had thought and hoped." 

Eustace sat for some time in a sort of 
trance, after the perusal of this letter from 
his uncle. He had worked himself up into 
a state of the greatest excitement with 
regard to its contents. At one moment 
anticipating angry reproaches, which he 
was to hear as a hero and martyr; at 
others, indulging in almost impossible 
visions of happiness, by his uncle holding 
out to him hopes for the future, after due 
probation and steadiness on his part, and 
unaltered affection on Lucy's. But for 
the careless manner in which Mr. Lush- 
ington alluded to what had so long racked 
his soul, depriving him of rest day and 
night — for the trifling, almost childish 


light in which he seemed to view his de- 
voted attachment to his danghter — the 
cool easy way in which he hinted at his 
being no longer welcome as a member of 
the family — for all this, Eustace was not 
prepared, and not only his heart, but his 
pride was wounded ; for by it, his uncle 
seemed to infer he was a person of so little 
consequence, it Httle mattered what his 
own affections were. He had expected angry 
reproaches, and would almost have pre- 
ferred them to such affronting, careless 
disregard. Then those cruel words, " Lucy 
is quite well and happy, amusing herself 
with her many friends and sight-seeings 
from morning to night," and what was 
perhaps worst of all, '' no doubt she must, 
for a day or two, have missed her old play- 
fellow." In short, had Mr. Lushington 
studied a letter for the purpose of wound- 
ing him in every possible way, he could 
not have succeeded better. Then, to com- 
plete his misery, this house in Stanhope- 
street ! Mrs. Lushington had gained her 


point. Lucy was now to be introduced 
into the fashionable world of London ! 

Lucy was indeed lost to him. — How 
Eustace longed to show this letter to his 
friend Neville 1 to have his opinion of its 
contents — of its meaning — in other words, 
to have been encouraged to " hope against 
hope ;" but all such confidence between 
them was now at an end. Eustace was 
(apparent^) more and more engrossed by 
his studies. Ne^dUe saw but the surface ; 
and, rejoicing at his young friend's zeal and 
assiduity, never doubted but that his 
bo}dsh fancy had completely died away. 



Eustace Gtrey passed a most excellent 
examination, and took his degree with so 
much credit to himself, that he appeared 
at once to acquire a different position at 
college. Those of his former associates who 
had begun by ridiculing his " seriousness," 
and endeavoiu'ing to provoke his temper, 
no longer ventured on their jokes and sar- 
casms, and his acquaintance was sought 
even by the elder members of the Univer- 
sity. Neville, about whose heart Eustace 
had strangely entwined himself, enjoyed 
his success, almost as a father would that 
of a favourite son, anticipating for him the 
most brilliant future career. And in 
these his anticipations he was not disap- 
pointed, for Eustace continued at every 


future step of his college life, to gain fresh 
honours and credit; in consequence of 
which, and of his very distinguished abili- 
ties, he finally obtained a fellowship at his 
own college, and was ordained to that as a 
title for orders. 

T\Tiile these events were taking place in 
the life of Eustace at Oxford, he had of 
course httle or no intercourse with the rest 
of the world, except through liis mother's 
letters, full of joy and gratitude at her 
" dear boy's" success ; and those which he 
received from Ked Watson, who in pity for 
his '' exclusion from the world of London," 
wTote from time to time to tell him what 
was going on in it. 

Amoncj other news, Ned had inforaied 
him that the Lushington family was now 
estabhshed in Stanhope-street ; that he, of 
course, frequently saw Mr. Lushington at 
the banking-house ; that he beheved his 
change of residence to the West End had 
been recommended to him by his doctor, 
as better for his health than his former 


residence in the City, saving him also the 
fatigue of going so often backwards and 
forwards to Elsmere. " And I dare say," 
added Ked, '' the ladies are well pleased at 
the change. Mr. Lushington," he con- 
tinued, " don't complain of being ill, but I 
think he looks very queer, and he keeps us 
all in more strict order than ever." 

Autumn was again fast approaching, 
and the London season closing, when 
Eustace received an unusually scrawly 
letter from his correspondent Xed Wat- 
son ; he wrote as follows : — 

" My dear G-rey, — 

'' I WRITE by my father's advice to 
break to you the news of a most dreadful 
affliction which has fallen upon the poor 
Lushingtons, as he is sure it will greatly 
distress and shock you, and he thinks it is 
better you should not hear it first from 
the newspapers. I fear it will go very 
hard with poor ^Ir. and Mrs. Lushington, 
and I am sure you will feel it much yoijr- 


self, from your having been so intimately 
acquainted from yom- very boyhood." 

The letter fell from Eustace's hands. 
" Oh, my Grod !" he exclaimed, " what can 
have happened ? Lucy ?" and he became 
so giddy, he could not for some time 
decipher another word ; all was confusion 
before his eyes. Having, at length, by a 
strong effort, stilled the beating of his 
heart, he again seized the letter ; and as 
he hastily glanced over it, his eye fell on 
the word " Frederick/' Eustace ag^ain 
breathed, but still the letter shook so 
violently in his hand, it was some minutes 
before he was able to read it, so as to 
understand its contents, and poor Xed 
had certainly not, by his preamble, taken 
the best method of " hreahing " (as he 
called it) the tragical event which he had 
to announce. His letter thus proceeded : — 

*' Of course, you will understand I 
allude to poor Frederick Lushington, and 
his melancholy end. He really deserved 
a better fate, being, to my mind, a fine, 


spirited fellow. But, perhaps, I had 
better now tell you the particulars of what 
has happened. It seems he (Captain 
Lushington) and another officer in the 
regiment, then quartered at Clonmel, 
had engaged at cards, after a very jolly 
mess dinner — Fred Lushinofton beino: 
always, you know, of a free, open, sociable 
disposition — none of your spoonies. 
Well, what the game was, or what hap- 
pened at it, I don't very well remember — 
I read about it all in such a hurry, and 
felt altogether so flurried — but somehow 
or other, Frederick Lushington and this 
officer quarrelled (and a regular blackguard 
he must have been, for he accused Fred of 
cheating, and called him by some name, 
which, of course, no gentleman can submit 
to be called by), and they got to high 
words, and then the other officers inter- 
fered ; but, unfortunately, they were all in 
rather an elevated state, and only made 
bad worse ; and, in short, the long and 
the short of the storj^ is, that before they 


knew whether tlie}^ were on their heads or 
their heels, away they went to a field near 
and fired — and poor Lnshington fell dead 
on the spot ! It is a dreadful thing ; but 
it must be a consolation to Mr. Lnshing- 
ton to think that his son died like a 
gentleman and a soldie7\ 

" My father is gone to Elsmere, to see 
whether he can be of any use to the 
afflicted family, hoping he may possibly 
get there in time to break this sad news 
to them (as I have, I hope, to j^ou), 
for it only reached London this morning. 
What will poor Mr. Lnshington do? 
Both his sons now gone ! and Mrs. Lnsh- 
ington, who was always so proud of poor 
Frederick ! — and well she might ! Such 
a handsome fellow ! and every one would 
not have acted with as much spirit as he 
seems to have done on this occasion ; so 
she has that consolation — but it is a shock- 
ing business altogether. 

" Yours, 

" Ed. Watson." 


It is impossible to describe what were 
the feelings of Eustace on tlie perusal of 
this letter. So appalling, indeed, were its 
contents, that it was some time before he 
could even realize to himself what had 
happened. The idea of any one rushing 
thus to his last account, in bold defiance of 
the will of his Creator, and at the very 
moment when breaking his laws in so 
many ways, made Eustace shudder; for 
he could not but see his cousin's conduct 
in a totally different light from that in 
which ^Ned Watson viewed it. " Dying 
like a gentleman /" Alas ! it is to be 
feared gentlemen, however brave and what 
the world calls honourable, have no pass- 
key into heaven ! JSro two beings could 
certainly have been less congenial than 
himself and his cousin Frederick ; but so 
awfal and sudden an end to one every 
way so Httle fitted to die — it was dreadful 
to think of! and he was Lucy's brother — 
his poor aunt's favourite son — her only 
son ! How bitterly, too, did Eustace now 


feel liis expulsion from Elsmere ! — the 
impossibility of being of any nse to those 
whom he so wished to serve ! Lucy left 
alone, with such horrible circumstances 
ever before her mind, no one with her to 
administer such consolation as would alone 
be fitted on so dreadful an occasion ! for 
he knew well Mr. Woodford would not 
be admitted, and common acquaintances 
would, of course, be excluded. The very 
horror of the moment sometimes almost 
emboldened Eustace to venture unbidden to 
Elsmere ; but he feared the displeasure of 
liis uncle : he had, in plain words, closed 
his doors against him ; he dared not brave 
his anger. 

Eustace passed some days in this pain- 
ful state of doubt and anxiety, but at 
length resolved on writing to Ked Watson 
for farther accounts, before he decided on 
what step he should take. He received 
the following answer by return of post : — 
" I fear I have not any good news to give 
you of your friends. My father says your 


imcle is dreadfully cut up, more so even 
than when his son Charles died, which is 
odd, as Frederick was never his favourite 
— quite the contrary. As for Mrs. Lush- 
ington, my father seems out of all patience 
with her ; she has never left her bed since 
the dreadful news arrived, persists in 
maintaining her son has been murdered 
by the horrid Irish people, who, she says^ 
have a particular spite at gentlemen ; she 
was always sure that what has happened, 
would ; and she lays all the blame on Mr. 
Lushington, for not having got him at 
once into the Life Guards, when he would 
have been safe in the barracks in Hyde 
Park. She " is sure it was all a concerted 
plan, and that the person who shot him 
was no officer at aU, but a rebel in dis- 
guise !" — Certainly, if any one can be com- 
forted under such a loss, ^Mr. Lushington 
might, for every one speaks in commenda- 
tion of Captain Lushington's gentlemanly 
manners, and reputation as an officer. 
My father says, Miss Lushington never 
VOL. I. Q 


leaves her mother, and looks wretchedly. 
The precise time when the last ceremony- 
will take place is not yet fixed, as the 
body is to be brought to Elsmere for in- 

Two or three days after the receipt of 
this letter, one witli a lugubrious broad 
black border was put into Eustace's hand, 
summoning him, in form, to attend Cap- 
tain Lushington's funeral, at Elsmere 
Manor, on the Tuesday of the following 
week. With it. came another from his 
correspondent 'Ned Watson, saying that 
he wrote by his father's desire, to propose 
their going together from London to 
Elsmere, on that Tuesday morning, and 
that if he (Eustace) would come to town 
the evening before, he could lodge him 
that night at his house. 

All this seemed to settle for him, past 
all possible doubt or demur, his going to 
Elsmere (the object on which his heart 
was set), as he could not, he thought, 
possibly be doing wrong, when accepting 


Mr. Watson's friendly proposal, and at- 
tending the regular summons lie had 
received ; and he accordingly left Oxford 
on the day preceding that named for the 
funeral. On their way, next morning, 
from London to Elsmere Manor, Mr. 
Watson questioned Eustace closely about 
himself, his studies, his intended profes- 
sion, his future prospects; but for the 
first time, he found his young friend silent 
and reserved, and as they approached the 
end of their journey neither seemed in- 
clined to speak. 

On reaching the house, they were at 
once ushered into the drawing-room, then 
filled with mourning figures, scarcely any 
of whom, Eustace, in his present nervous 
agitation, recognised. For there he was 
again, after an absence of nearly three 
years, in that same room (every article of 
furniture within which was so familiar to 
him, recalling the past) where he had 
spent so many days of his boyhood with 
those two companions, both now no more, 



and with her from whom he felt separated 
by almost as impassable a barrier as death 
itself. When, after a few minutes, he 
became more composed, he ventured to 
look round the room, most of those as- 
sembled, he did not know, and his uncle 
certainly was not among them. 

Before long, the church bell began to 
toll in those dismal, slow, minute strokes 
which announce that "man is going to 
his long home." The door from the next 
room (the library, where the body lay) 
was opened, and Mr. Lushington entered 
from it, alone. He was ghastly pale, and 
appeared oldened ten years since Eustace 
had parted with him at Eome the spring 
before. He shook hands with one or two 
of his friends as he passed them, while 
the coffin-bearers were preparing to raise 
their burden, in order to form into the 
funeral procession. On perceiving Mr. 
Watson, Mr. Lushington appeared to 
hasten his pace. Eustace had involun- 
tarily (even unconsciously) shrunk back 


behind the former, his uncle's altered ap- 
pearance had so ^artled and shocked him, 
and he felt also painfully nervous as to 
what welcome he might receive from him, 
after what had lately passed between them. 

" Here is Eustace Grey," said Mr. 
Watson, drawing back, in order to let 
Mr. Lushington see him. 

The minute the uncle's eye fell upon 
his nephew, the most extraordinary rush 
of blood spread itself over his before 
ghastly countenance ; lie seemed to try 
to speak, but as if he could not ; and, 
convulsively grasping the hand of Eustace 
for a minute, he hurried on. 

Eustace being the nearest relation pre- 
sent, he was desired to follow immediately 
after the chief mourner, as soon as the 
coffin had passed ; and all those assembled 
on the melancholy occasion then proceeded 
to the church. 

How many and painful were poor Eus- 
tace's feehngs on again hearing those 
solemn opening words of the burial ser- 


vice, "Blessed are the dead who die in 
the Lord" — words so atS^fully z?2applicable 
on the present occasion ! and so forcibly 
recalling the moment when he had, three 
years before, on that very spot, repeated 
them to one who then clung to his arm 
with the intimacy of confiding affection, 
when following to that same grave the 
remains of her brother Charles — one 
whose every thought and feeling he then 
had shared, and yet from whom, although 
she was under that very roof he had but 
just quitted, he was for ever separated; 
one, whom he dared not now even en- 
counter — whose very name he felt he could 
scarcely pronounce. 

The religious ceremony concluded, all 
lingered for a time around the open vault, 
looking down on the coffins of those two 
brothers, cut off* in the very prime of life, 
lying side by side in their bed of death. 
And then the mourners returned to the 
house in the same order in which they 
had left it, Eustace mechanically following 


the rest to tlie hall-door ; but instead of 
enterins: it, he suddenly darted off throuo^h 
the shrubbery, and retracing his steps, he 
returned to the churchyard, and though 
hardly, perhaps, conscious of his object, 
went straight to the gravestone on which 
he and Lucv had sat that eyenins:, when 
first he had '•' told his love ;"' where he had 
related to her his " delightful dream ;" and 
where he had in a manner affianced her as 
his wife. How long he there remained en- 
tranced he knew not, but being at length 
distm'bed by the workmen, who came to 
close the open yault, he mechanically re- 
turned towards the house, passing by the 
side on which were Lucy's windows, and 
he for a minute stopped and looked up 
towards them ; the blinds were all drawn 
down, and in !Mrs. Lushington's apart- 
ments eyen the shutters were closed. 

The butler, who had apparently recog- 
nised Eustace from the back door of the 
house, hurried up to him. Did he want 
anything, or anybody ? would he not take 


some refreshment ? All tlie gentlemen 
were in the dining-room, would he jom 
them ? or should he fetch him anything ? 

Eustace made no answer; indeed, he 
did not even hear any of these well-meant 

But Lambert persevered with officious 
kindness — •" Shall I let Miss Lushington 
know you are here, sir ? I am sure she 
would see you, and it would do her good." 

" Is she alone ?" inquired Eusta€e, in 
an odd, vacant manner, as if at last roused 
out of his trance, but scarcelv conscious of 
his own words. 

" Oh, yes ! quite alone, I'm pretty sure ; 
but I will go and fetch her maid, and she 
can inform her of your being here, and 
you can, you know, go up these stairs to 
the passage leading to Miss Lushington's 
sitting-room, without interfering with the 
compauy in any way ; and I am sure she 
would be so glad to see you, you were 
always as a brother to her ; aud now both 
of them gone, and in so dreadful a way l" 


and Lambert stopped to brusli away liis 
tears. " Poor Miss Lushington," he con- 
tinued, " takes on sadly, Mr. Eeid says ; 
and she looks miserably — so pale and ill !" 

Wliat a crnel trial was all this for poor 
Eustace ! To be thus close to Lucy, actu- 
ally within hearing of her voice, and she in 
affliction, needing consolation (such con- 
solation, too, as he was sure she would 
not receive from any of those around her), 
and then to be more entirely separated 
from her than if miles had been between 
them. Again Eustace unconsciously re- 
peated the same words, " Is she alone ?" 

Lambert stared, but again made the 
same answer, '' Quite alone, I believe ; but 
if you please, I will go and see " — and he 
was already, in his friendly zeal, on the 
step of the stair. 

" Oh, no ! no !" cried Eustace, stopping 
him. '' I do not mean that ; but has she 
no friend with her — staying with her?" 

" No, not yet, sir : Mr. Lushington 
would hear of no one coming to the house 


at first, she was in such a terrible way ; 
but I understand Lady Emily Maxwell is 
expected to-morrow — indeed, I believe, 
this afternoon." 

Eustace actually started at the sound of 
Lady Emily's name, for what a host of 
recollections did it not in a moment raise 
up! — the sitting-room at Semi's Hotel — 
the moonlight night at the Colosseum — 
so much of pleasure — so much of pain ! 

" And is that the best, the only friend 
poor Lucy has to look to for comfort in 
her hour of need?" thought he to himself; 
and then turning to the butler, as if some 
sudden thought had occasioned a sudden 
resolution — " Is there any London coach 
which passes anywhere near this, in the 
afternoon, and arrives in town in time for 
the night-mail to Oxford ?" 

" I will inquire," said Lambert, " if you 
will please to walk in. You can come 
in here, into my room, if you don't Hke 
to go up -stairs." 

In a few minutes Lambert returned, 


wdth the information that in a couple of 
hours the " Highflyer " coach would pass 
through St. Alban's, in its way south. 

" Oh, thank you ! Then will you give 
me a pen and ink, and a sheet of paper ?" 

" Here, sir ?" inquired the butler, with 
a surprised, inquiring look. " Will you 
not walk into the Hbrary ? It is all cleared 
away from there by this time, you can 
safely go." 

" No, thank you," said Eustace, " I will 
remain here." 

In a few minutes Lambert returned 
with writing materials, and some wine 
and biscuits. "Pray, Mr. Eustace," he 
said, with a beseeching expression of coun- 
tenance, as he poured out some wine into 
a glass, "pray take something; you look 
so pale and unlike yourself, and it has 
indeed been an awful day for us all." 

Tears rushed into the eyes of Eustace, 
and he gratefully drank off what was so 
kindly held out to him. He then wrote 
as follows to Mr. Watson : — 


" My DEAR Sir, 

" As I wish to be at Oxford early 
to-morrow, I think I had better take ad- 
vantage of a coach, which I find passes 
through St. Alban's in a couple of hours, 
and which reaches London early this 
evening ; so, with many thanks for your 
kind offer of taking me back with you, I 
shall avail myself of this conveyance. In- 
deed, I hope and trust you will not leave 
my poor uncle at present ; at any rate, not 
to-day. He looks so ill and worn, I am 
sure he needs a comforter, and no one can 
be that to him better than yourself. I 
should feel it to be a great kindness, if you 
would let me know how you leave him 
when you come away, and all the family." 

Eustace sealed his letter and gave it to 
the butler, bidding him tell Mr. Watson, 
when he delivered it to him, that he was 

" And without seeing poor Miss Lucy ?" 
said Lambert, in evident astonishment. 


Eustace made him no answer, but 
quickly walked out of the house. He 
once again looked up at the darkened ^Yin- 
dows of Lucy's room, and then did not 
slacken his hurried pace until he reached 
St. Albans. 

How often, during the long dark hours 
of that dismal night jom-ney from London 
to Oxford, did poor Eustace, with a cold 
damp sweat upon his brow, start up from 
the horrible dreams, which, whenever he 
closed his eyes in sleep, haunted him. 
The open vault in Elsmere churchyard 
was constantly before him. Sometimes 
he looked down upon the coffins of the 
two brothers, lying side by side in their 
early grave. At others, it seemed to be 
his uncle w^ho was stretched below, and 
whose open glassy eyes were fixed upon 
him, with that strange expression, which 
had so startled Eustace in the morning at 
the funeral. Then Lucy appeared on the 
scene, upbraiding him for his cruel deser- 
tion of her ; and at her side was Sii* Alex- 


ander Melville, pointing in derision to the 
cross at the Colosseum. Daylight, how- 
ever, at length dispelled all these horrible 

It was still early morning when Eustace 
again reached Oxford, and all was silent 
in Oriel College when he re-entered his 
own room. So short had been his ab- 
sence, he could hardly realise to himself 
all that had passed since he left it, and his 
friend JSTeville had never even discovered 
it. That friend took indeed so little in- 
terest in the common affairs of tliis lower 
world, that, never joining in any of the 
daily gossipings of life, never even scarcely 
reading a newspaper, he was perfectly 
ignorant of the tragical event which had 
taken place in the Lushington family, and 
it was not one with which Eustace could 
have any wish to acquaint him. Indeed, 
strange as it may seem, Neville had never 
inquired the name of his young friend's 
relations and connections, not even of 
her of whom he had asked whether she 


was " a child of God !" It was Eustace's 
open ardent disposition which had, from 
the first, so strangely interested him in 
his behalf, not his love story ; such stories 
Neville thought belonged to youth alone, 
and would probably be followed by many 
similar before the character was formed, 
and the affection fixed. It was his young 
friend's souVs welfare he had taken so 
much to heart ; and when once satisfied 
that young friend had acted according to 
those principles of open conscientious truth 
which should ever mark the Christian's 
conduct and character, he thought no more 
of the circumstance itself which had oc- 
casioned his anxiety, and never doubted 
that it was forgotten by Eustace also. 



Eustace Grey, as we have seen (rather 
anticipating the events which took place 
in his college Hfe), had, by means of his 
rapid advance in all its academical honours, 
finally obtained a title to holy orders, and 
was, before long, appointed curate to a 
friend of Neville's, whose health required 
his leaving his parish duties for some 
months. Eustace had now, therefore, 
actually entered upon that sacred profes- 
sion, to which he had solemnly, before 
heaven, pledged entire devotion of heart 
and life ; and he had so far subdued his 
former feehngs, as to be thankful that cir- 
cumstances had so well prepared him for 
those sacrifices, which he was aware any one 
engaging in the holy ministry would, in 


some degree, be called upon to make ; and 
tliat those visions of earthly felicity, which 
had before so absorbed his whole being, 
had been, of necessity, so much dispelled. 
Severe had been the training which he 
had undergone ; and it still required con- 
stant watchfulness, and violent struggles 
with self, to banish all those feelings and 
recollections which had, for a time, en- 
tirely mastered him. But his character 
was now formed ; and that moral courage, 
which should ever distinguish the true 
Christian, had grown with his growth, 
and strengthened with his strength. New 
objects, new aspirations, had taken posses- 
sion of his soul, for he now felt that he 
was called upon to the discharge of the 
most important of all duties. To him 
would be consigned the care of immortal 
souls ! He was now appointed to the ex- 
alted ofl&ce of ambassador from Christ, to 
proclaim the glad tidings of peace and re- 
concihation to repentant sinners ; and with 
such duties, such prospects before him^ 

VOL. I. R 


Eustace was almost ashamed of tlie merely 
selfisli feelings and objects whicli had once 
so entirely engrossed him. That strong 
affection, which had roused into life, and 
occupied his every thought and faculty, 
seemed to him now as "a very lovely 
song," a \dsion which had appeared, and 
then had vanished away. But that very 
engrossing passion had helped to form his 
chaj'acter ; he had become acquainted with 
himself, with his own weakness. He had 
learnt, also, where to apply for that 
strength against temptation, wliich he 
was aware that, of himself, he had not. 
His very earthly affection had, in short, 
served towards raising his mind to higher 
objects, by stirring up every power of his 
soul, and brino^insf all the natural eners^ies 
of his character into play. When first 
the bright dream of his youth was 
broken, when liis fond imagination could 
no longer place Lucy at his side in the 
parsonage adjoining the " old grey 
church" at Elsmere (for from the Els- 


mere living lie now felt himself to be as 
entirely excluded, as our first parents were 
from Paradise), he had, like them, looked 
appalled at the dreary prospect which his 
future hfe presented. But now, with 
duty as his daily companion, his fellow- 
creatures as his family, and his Saviour for 
his help and guide, he felt, that wherever 
Providence might place him, there he 
could not fail to find some interest in hfe. 
Tlie Eev. Eustace Grey was now there- 
fore established as curate, in the little 
parish of Ashford, in Hampshire, and was 
just beginning to feel settled, and at home 
in his parochial duties, when he received 
the following letter from Mr. Watson : — 

" My dear young Priend, 

" It has given me, as you may be 
sure, the greatest pleasure to hear with 
what credit you have passed through all 
vour colleo^e examinations, and what dis- 
tinguished honom-s you have gained, so 
that vou are now fairlv launched in the 


profession you have 'cliosen. All I can 
say is go on as you have begun, and may 
you, with God's blessing, prosper. 

*' With regard to your final destination 
(the living at Elsmere), I know nothing 
further; but, I believe, Mr. Woodford is 
still there, the preferment, or arrangement 
to which he had looked, having, somehow 
(at least for the present), failed. But, 
from your uncle, I have heard nothing on 
the subject; for ever since that melancholy 
day, when we all met at his poor son's 
funeral, I have avoided alluding to any- 
thing connected with the place : he ap- 
peared to be always so painfuUy agitated 
whenever T did so. And, indeed, he has 
been there very little himself, as change 
of scene was almost immediately recom- 
mended for Mrs. Lushington; and the 
family have, in consequence, been, for 
the last two or three months, entirely at 

" I had not therefore seen your uncle 
for some time, but hearing by chance, 


that they had arrived in Stanhope-street, 
I went immediately to call upon him, and 
I am sure you will be glad to hear that 
Mrs. Lushington is a great deal better 
than she was — in short, herself again ; 
but your poor uncle is certainly much 
changed every way ; which, however, one 
cannot wonder at after such dreadful afflic- 
tions and losses. 

" But I must now come to the chief 
purport of my letter, for which I T^dll 
trust to your kindness, not to condemn 
me as a very impertinent, meddling old 

"To the point then. Ever since that 
dismal day of poor Frederick's funeral, 
I have been haunted with the idea, that 
something had gone ^\Tong between you 
and your uncle, and this I could in no 
way account for, but by concluding (you 
will forgive me) that you had, by some 
youthful misconduct, incm'red his dis- 
pleasure ; for the excessive agitation you 
both betrayed on meeting that day, was 


certainly far beyond what even the melan- 
choly circumstances of the moment, seemed 
to account for. And your sudden, abrupt 
disappearance from Elsmere immediately 
after the conclusion of the ceremony, 
confirmed me in my suspicions. 

" With this impression, therefore, I 
went to Stanhope- street, directly on hear- 
ing that Lushington was come to town, 
determined to clear up the mystery, and 
hoping, if right in my conjectures, to be 
able to act as mediator between you and 
your uncle ; for with all my old friend's 
estimable qualities, I know that there is 
a degree of cold reserve about him which 
must be rather formidable to a young per- 
son, and I never could imagine, that your 
offence (if offence you had committed) 
could be of a very serious description. 

" I was therefore turning in my mind 
how to open the matter, when your uncle 
saved me all further trouble, by at once 
inquiring after you. Where you were ? 
What you were about ? So I then 


thouglit I miglit venture to allude to 
my suspicion, and anxiety, in consequence 
of what I had observed of your mutual 
agitation on meeting, some little time ago. 
" Your uncle appeared, at first, to be 
rather startled by my inquiries, but almost 
immediately recovering himself — ' Yes,' 
he rephed, ' there has been a httle rnis- 
understanding' (he termed it) ' between us. 
Eustace has, I beheve, taken up something 
I wrote to him — perhaps, too strongly — 
more so than I had intended, at least — 
but,' (he added, quickly) — 'that has all 
passed by — is blown over— and I have, 
on the contrary, the very highest opinion 
of him. I believe him to be an excellent 
young man, and the more I see and know 
of what are called the fashionable young 
men of the world ' (and your uncle laid a 
peculiar emphasis on the v^ordi fashionable) 
' the better I am inchned to think of my 
nephew ; ' and then, after a pause, he 
added — ' Should he, by chance, be at any 
time in town, I shall be very glad to see 


him again ; and you may tell him so. I 
understand lie is doing very well at Ox- 

" This is, word for word, what my friend 
Lushington said to me on your subject, 
and from what I know of you, I have 
no doubt, but that you will avail yourself, 
without loss of time, of this opening on 
his side towards a reconciliation. What 
it is that had made this necessary I do 
not know, and do not mean to inquire 
my part being only to bring it about; 
and I therefore write to say, that when- 
ever you find you can leave your parochial 
duties, and come to town, the same httle 
attic in my house which you occupied 
once before, will be at your service, and 
I am sure I need make no nonsensical 
speeches to you about not lodging you 

" Your affectionate friend, 

" W. Watson. 

" P.S. I enclose a note to you from 


It is impossible to describe the strange, 
the painful state of tumultuous feelings, 
into which this letter of Mr. Watson 
threw poor Eustace. The blessed calm, 
which succeeds hard but successful con- 
test over self, was at once destroyed. 
Thoughts, feelings, and recollections, 
which had, to a great degree, been over- 
come by principle, unceasing occupation, 
and absorbing devotion to his new duties, 
now rushed back upon him with over- 
whelming violence. He was again to 
enter his uncle's house, as a welcome, an 
invited \dsitor ! Again to behold Lucy ! 
What could it all mean ? 

Again and again he read Mr. Watson's 
letter— he thought he must be dreaming. 
And what could his uncle mean by saying 
there had been a " little misunderstanding 
between them ;" " that he had taken up 
something he had said too strongly;" 
and "that it was all blown over?" Or 
was it (and Eustace actually shuddered 
as the idea struck him) — was it that all 


anxiety on that head was gone by ? Lucy 
being engaged to another? to one more 
fortunate than himself? " Yes, it must 
be so ; that explains it all ;" and he 
sprang from his chair, and paced hastily 
up and down the room. " Yes ! and I 
^m to go and witness this — I am to see 
her happy with another — and the sight 
is to cure me of my folly. Well, be it 
so ! What else could I possibly have ex- 
pected. Oh, my God !" he exclaimed, 
as he clasped his hands together ; "is 
this my submission to thy will? is this 
my professed devotion to thy service? 
My mUing resignation of this world's 
enjoyments ! Oh, God, forgive me !" 
Eustace buried his face in his hands, 
and remained some time absorbed in 
prayer. At length, rousing himself — 
" Yes, I will go," he mentally ejacu- 
lated; " I will see her once again, when 
every possible hope is at an end, these 
wild, unchastened feelings will subside 
and I shall then more contentedly look to 


that dreary, lonely future which must be 
my lot." 

Wlien Eustace returned to the table, in 
order to write to Mr. Watson, his eye fell 
on a piece of paper laying on the ground : 
it was the note from Ned Watson, which 
his father said he had enclosed, and was as 
follows : — 

" My dear Grey, 

" I am so glad to hear that there 
is some idea of your coming to town, for 
I am sure it will do you good to have a 
little recreation after all your awful ex- 
aminations and ordinations ; and when- 
ever I know your day is fixed, I will 
try and get through my work as soon as 
possible, so as to be as much at liberty 
as I can while you are in London, that 
we may have a little fun together; and 
pray, if possible, arrange so as to be a 
Wednesday and Friday here, for there is 
the most delightful new farce at the 
Adelplii Theatre now acting every other 


night, such capital fun ! and a new actor 
who will make you die of laughter ; and I 
am longing to go there with you. 

" I hear the Lushington family are all 
pretty well ; and, by-the-by, they say Miss 
Lushington is, now (both her brothers 
being gone) a most amazing heiress ! they 
talk of forty or fifty thousand a-year ! and 
that all the ruined elder brothers, and 
pennyless younger ones at the West End, 
are after her ; the present doubt being 
between Lord ParneU (Lady Emily Max- 
well's brother), and a Mr. Clifford, a sad 
roue (as they call him). Your Eoman 
friend. Sir Alexander Melville, is also 
named as a suitor for her well-filled hand. 
Now, between you and I, I always thought 
you and Miss Lushington looked very 
sweet upon each other at Eome ; so you 
had better come and look sharp after your 
own interests, for fifty, or even forty thou- 
sand a-year is worth the trouble of wooing. 
" Yours truly, 

" Edward Watson." 


This letter of the good, simple Ned, 
kindly intended as it may have been, 
was not certainly calculated to compose 
the mind and feelings of Eustace. 

He was actually thunderstruck on read- 
ing what had never once occurred to him, 
namely, the probability of a great change 
in Lucy's future prospects in life in con- 
sequence of her brother's death ! But 
why should he care? Lucy was abeady 
lost to him. The gulf between them 
being still farther widened Httle mat- 
tered ; indeed, it was perhaps better it 
should be so — much better ! 



It was on a Tuesday that Eustace re- 
ceived Mr. Watson's letter ; so he wrote 
to say (with every possible expression of 
gratitude for his kind interference in his 
behalf), that he would gladly accept his 
offer of the little attic room, and be with 
him on Thursday, of course returning for 
his parish duties on Sunday. 

It is more easy to imagine than describe 
the feehngs of Eustace on that Thursday, 
as he drew towards the end of his journey. 
He left the coach at Hyde Park Corner, 
and walked on to Stanhope-street. 

" Is Mr. Lushington at home?" he in- 
quired, almost hoping to hear he was not, 
and that he might have, at least, a short 
reprieve from the dreaded interview. 


" Your name, sir, if you please," said 
the man ; " Mr. Lusliington does not see 
every one." 

On Eustace telling it. 

'■* Oh, yes, sir, if you please, walk this 
way;" and he proceeded to a room on 
the ground-floor, and opening the door, 
announced Mr. Grey. 

Mr. Lusliington was (as usual) before a 
table covered with papers, and apparently 
dee]3ly engaged writing. On hearing 
Eustace's name, he instantly started up. 
Again, as at Elsmere, on the day of the 
funeral, the blood for a minute crimsoned 
his pale hollow cheek ; he took his nephew 
by the hand, with (for him) unusual 
warmth of manner, and assuring him he 
did not at all disturb him, bade him sit 
down ; he then inquired minutely into all 
Eustace had been doing at Oxford, and 
about his present residence and occupa- 
tions. " And you like your profession ?" 
continued Mr. Lushington, ''and will, I 
hope, be steady to it, not hke all those 


despicable idle young fellows, I see abont 
town ; tliey really make me sick, doing 
nothing from morning till niglit, and worse 
than nothing. I am glad that is not yonr 
turn at all events." 

He then inquired how long Eustace was 
to be in town ? He said, he must be back at 
Ashford by Saturday. " For your Sunday 
duty, I suppose ; that is right, never shrink 
duty. Mr. Watson lodges you at his house, 
I believe ? — he is a very kind friend, and 
you know," he added, almost smiling, "he 
has, somehow, taken a strange fancy to you. 
I am not sure, whether he was not rather 
in love with your mother, my sister Lucy, 
formerly, which perhaps partly accounts 
for his hking for you. Well, you will come 
and dine with us to-morrow, and I will 
send and ask Mr. Watson and your old 
Roman companion, Ned, to come also. 
You will find no company that I know of," 
he added. " I hate company : I wish Mrs. 
Lushington disliked it as much ; but per- 
haps, after all that has happened to us, it 


is better for her it should be as it is. I 
dare say she is at home now, so you had 
better go up and see her, and have your 
meeting over, before you come here to din- 
ner to-mon'ow;" and without waiting for 
any answer from Eustace, Mr. Lushington 
got up, rang the bell, and desired the servant 
to take Mr. Grey up to the drawing-room. 

All this time, not a word about Lucy ! 
he never even alluded to her ; perhaps she 
was not then in Stanhope-street ; per- 
haps — ! It was in short, as if all that had 
some months before passed between him 
and his uncle was indeed quite " gone by," 
enthely forgotten ! " "What did it all mean ? 
What new trial was awaiting him ?" Poor 
Eustace's heart beat so violently as he fol- 
lowed his conductor up the stairs, he could 
hardly breathe. 

The servant threw open the door of a 
longish room, and announced him. There 
was a person in black seated in an arm 
chair, at the further end of the apartment ; 
her back was towards him, and she appeared 

VOL. I. s 


deeply engaged reading. It was already 
getting dusk, and the blinds being all down, 
it was not easy to distinguish any object 
at a distance. 

After having announced the visitor, the 
servant left the room, and it was appa- 
rently the noise made by the closing door, 
which first roused the figui^e in black. 

Lucy (for it was herself) started from her 
seat. The book fell from her hand, she 
looked for a minute at Eustace, as if be- 
wildered, and the next a scream, half fright, 
half joy, escaped from her. She rushed 
up to him, and in such breathless agitation, 
that before either of them were aware, 
Eustace had caught her in his arms, and 
her head had fallen on his breast. How 
severe a trial was this to poor Eustace, 
after all his hard struggles with liis pas- 
sionate affection, to have the object of it 
thus thrown upon his throbbing heart, and 
yet not daring to press her to it ; he dared 
not even speak — scarcely to breathe ! Lucy, 
too^ was silent ! 


Surprised at length, at her neither 
moving nor uttering a word, Eustace ven- 
tured to look dovnx towards her face, 
putting back her hair, which having fallen 
over it, entirely covered it. Her cheek 
was ashy pale : her eyes were closed, even 
her hps were bloodless . Grreatly alarmed, he 
lifted her to the nearest couch, and per- 
ceiving an Eau de Cologne bottle on the 
table near, he bathed her forehead and 
hands with it; in a minute or two, she 
began to revive, and slowly opening her 
eyes, fixed them steadfastly upon Eustace's 
face, as if still half doubting who or what 
she saw. 

Again she closed them ! then once more 
looked earnestly at him. '' Eustace ! is it 
possible, is it you?" she said, in a faint, low 
voice. " I was so startled, so surprised, I 
so little expected to see 7/ou ! It is very 
fooUsh of me — such nonsense ! but I some- 
how am become terribly nervous, the least 
thing startles me — I am really ashamed ; — 
but it is all over now, I am quite well;" 

s 2 


and she tried to raise herself from the 
couch, by the side of which Eustace still 
knelt, chafing her hands. He helped her 
to get up, and she tottered to the chair she 
had before occupied. For a minute or two 
neither spoke — Eustace standing at her 
side, his eyes riveted on her face. At 
last, pointing to a chair by her, she, though 
still with a trembhng voice, said ; " There, 
sit down, Eustace, I am quite right again 
now;" and then, as if wishing to overcome 
her o^vn agitation, as well as that of Eustace, 
by talkingof something indifferent, "Do tell 
me," she continued, " how you came here ? 
and where you come from ? — and where you 
have been this long, long while? — I thought 
you had quite forgotten me," she added, 
with a look of reproach. — " Do you know 
how long it is since I have seen you ? not 
since March, 1828 !" and she counted the 
number of months on her fingers; " actually 
twenty months ! and you never even wrote 
to papa, at least he never said he had heard 
from you; and somehow," she added. 


slightly colouring, "I never liked to ask him 
about you. And so much has happened ! 
that dreadful day at Elsmere ! and when 
you never came near me ! — I heard your 
voice — I heai'd you speaking to the ser- 
vant — I thought you were certainly coming 
to me, and, on the contrary, I saw you 
walk away, so fast ! and I so needed some 
friend, some comfort, I felt so alone !" and 
poor Lucy shuddered at the recollection of 
that melancholy day. 

" Grood heaven 1" thought Eustace ; 
" then she knows nothing 1 Her father can 
never have told her ! She is not aware 
that I was forbidden — proscribed 1 How 
strange ! how inexpKcable !" 

Thus occupied with his own bewildering 
thoughts, Eustace did not make any answer, 
and Lucy continued — "Where do you come 
from to-day ? — Are you living in London ? 
How is yom' nameless friend ? — Is he still 
keeping you in the same strict order?" 
Lucy's questions succeeded each other so 
rapidly, Eustace luckily could not answer 


them; indeed she seemed in so nervously 
excited a state, as if she hardly knew her- 
self what she said. "And are jon going 
to remain in London ?" she inquired. 

" Only till Saturday/' he repHed. 

" Why only till Saturday ? Where are 
you going to ?" 

" Home," said Eustace, in a tremulous 

" Home ? I suppose you mean to Ox- 
ford ?" 

" 'No," — and again, for some reason, his 
voice faltered — "to my curacy at Ashford." 

" What ! are you actually settled as a 
clergyman ?" she exclaimed ; and then look- 
ing steadfastly at him, " Oh yes ! I see the 
black dress and white neckcloth ! I thought 
you looked somehow diiferent from usual, 
and could not make out what it was ; hut 
I don't Hke that white neckcloth half so 
well as my old friend the black silk, for 
you don't look like yourself with it ; how- 
ever, I am glad to see none of that non- 
sense of clergymen now-a-day, who seem 


to wish to make themselves look like 
Eoman Catholic priests ! But you are alto- 
gether so mu(;h changed, Eustace ! — You 
seem to me to be grown so tall ! — and your 
shoulders so broad — and you are, if pos- 
sible, still more pale than when you were 
at Eome — I hope you have not again been 
studying too hard, and doing penance for 
your sins. — Well," she added, with the 
kindest smile, and holding out her hand to 
him, with the hearty famiharity of former 
days, " changed or not, I am 'ceiy, very 
glad to see you again !" 

Poor Eustace was altogether too much 
overcome and bewildered to speak, and he 
dared not press her hand in return ; tears 
started into liis eyes, and suddenly rising 
from his seat — " Is Mrs. Lushington not 
at home ?" he inquired ; '^ I thought she 
had been here." 

" No, she is gone out with Lady Eains- 

" Oh !" said Eustace, in an absent man- 
ner — then in a minute added hurriedly, 


" I suppose I sliould go now ; Mr. Watson 
will be expecting me !" 

" What are you going to liim for ? I 
am sure there must be plenty of room for 
you here — and he lives so far off!" 

" He kindly takes me into his house to- 
night," said Eustace ; " he is a very, very 
kind friend to me 1" and again tears, not- 
withstanding his efforts to restrain them, 
forced themselves from the eyes of Eustace, 
and he seized his hat to go. 

" When shall I see you again, Eustace?" 
Lucy inquired. 

" Your father has invited me to dine 
here to-morrow, with Mr. Watson and 
Ned," he replied. 

" Oh, I am so glad !" she exclaimed ; 
and asrain she held out her hand to him. 
" And I promise ! I will not make such 
a fool of myself any more ; I really am so 
ashamed. I don't know what came over 
me, but in the dusk you seemed to me to 
be an apparition I and it was so long, so 
very long since I had seen you! Oh, 


Eustace, it was not right to forget your 
old playfellow. I never should have ex- 
pected that of you." 

Eustace could not stand this any longer. 
He convulsively pressed the hand of Lucy, 
and rushed out of the room. 

He had not been long gone before Mrs. 
Lushington returned home : she came 
into the room in a prodigious flm-ry. 

" And so Eustace Grey has cast up 
again," she exclaimed, " and has been 
here ! AYhat in the world is he come to 
London for ? I thought he was at Oxford 
studying, or doing something of that 
sort, — and it seems you have seen him ?" 

" Yes, mamma, he is only just gone; he 
wished to see you, but said he could not 

" Oh yes, I dare say ! but he will do 
very well without seeing me I Avarrant ! 
and I beg you will not encourage his 
visits — it is not at all what I apj^rove 
of. I am sure Lady Eainsforth never 
allows young men to visit her daughters 


when she is out : I never heard of such a 
thing ! And it was very forward and im- 
pertinent of Eustace to come in that 
sneaking sort of manner ; but as I have 
told you before, he knows nothing of the 
world or good manners ; it may be all very 
well at Oxford, where they know no better, 
but here these free-and-easy ways will 
never do, as I shall take the hberty of tell- 
ing him ; and I wonder how you could 
ever think of such a thing, as desire to 
have a young man let in, when I. am 

" Indeed, mamma, I knew nothing about 
the matter till I saw him, and I was so 
startled. I" — Lucy stopped, but after a 
minute, with suffused cheeks, she added : 
" Papa has asked him to dinner here 
to-morrow, and Mr. Watson and his son 
with him, for he is staying with Mr. 

" The Watsons dine here to-morrow !" 
exclaimed Mrs. Lushington, mth a look of 
horror. *' What can your father be thinking 


of? AATiyXed Watson is enough to frigliten 
away all good company fi'om the house ; 
and I have asked Lord and Lady Eains- 
forth and Lord Pamell to come to us to- 
morrow, in a quiet, family sort-of-way, and 
a pretty sort of family party it Avill be ! 
I shall be really quite ashamed — and don't 
know what in the world I am to do !" 

" Oh, do nothing, dear mamma!" said 
Lucy, whose face had become somewhat 
flushed on hearing Lord Parnell was to be 
of the party (whether from pleasure or 
vexation it was impossible to say) : "we 
shall all do very well. What does it 
signify ? And Ned Watson will talk for 
us all !" 

" It is very easy to say it ' dont signify,^ 
but it does signify a great deal, and I must 
go and explain it all to Lady Eainsforth 
to-morrow morning, or she may take it 
quite amiss, as a personal afli'ont." 

" AVhat, mamma?" 

" Why, my asking such company to 
meet her as these Watsons, and Eustace 


too, who I suppose will be preaching one 
of his dismal sermons to us, the whole 
time ! Very provoking !" 

Accordingly next morning, as early as 
it was possible (at the West End) to make 
visits, Mrs. Lushington ordered her car- 
riage, and hurried to Belgravia to tell her 
griefs to Lady Eainsforth ; for all remon- 
strance with Mr. Lushington she knew 
would be vain, and he had besides gone 
very early that morning to the city on 
particular business. 

" Oh, my dear Lady Eainsforth !" ex- 
claimed Mrs, Lushington, before she and 
her rich rustling, well be-flounced, black 
silk gown, had scarcely got into the room 
(for the family were still in mourning for 
Frederick, and Mrs. Lushington was hy 
way of not having yet returned to the 
world), " I am come to you terribly early 
I fear, but I am in such distress ! I don't 
know what to do !" 

" Dear me, how you alarm me !" ex- 
claimed Lady Eainsforth. " Pray sit down 


here, iu this arm chair, and shall I get you 
some sal volatile ? But what is it ?" 

'' Oh, it is a great many its ! — In the 
first place, there is that tiresome, trouhle- 
some Eustace Grrey, with his solemn face, 
started up again ! and you know he is a 
positive thorn in my side, and when I 
thought we had quite got rid of him 1 
AMiere he comes fi'om, or what has 
brought him to town, I don't know, but — 
will you beheve it?^ — yesterday, when 
you dropped me at home (after our de- 
lightful drive), I found he had been, I do 
believe, above an hour closeted with 
Lucy !" 

" Closeted with ]\riss Lushington ! you 
don't say so ! how very shocking ! but 
where ?" inquired Lady Eainsforth, in an 
absent manner, plainly proving her mind 
had wandered far away from her dear 
friend's distresses. " In what closet ?" 

" Oh, I don't mean in an actual closet ; 
of coui'se, in the dra\^ing-room." 

"Oh, weU! I breathe!" said Lady 


Rainsfortli, trying to smother a yawn. " I 
thought ! — I really don't know what I 
thought, hut still it is very dreadful !" 

" How kind you are," said Mrs. Lush- 
ington, " to enter so into my feelings ! hut 
I was sure you would he shocked, and I 
told Lucy so. But that is not the worst 
part of the story." 

" E'ot the worst ! you don't mean they 
have eloped together ?" 

" Oh dear no ! nothing of all that ; hut 
Mr. Lushington (who somehow of late 
never thinks ahout anything) to my very 
great distress, asked Eustace Grey to dine 
with us to-day in Stanhope-street, and I 
am so distressed ! When you said you 
would he so kind as come and take a quiet 
family dinner with us ; for I am sure it is 
very kind of any one coming to us, such a 
dismal moping life as we lead now." And 
Mrs. Lushington held up a bit of her mag- 
nificent black dress, to show to what she 

" Oh, if that is all," rejoined Lady 


Eainsforth, '' pray don't distress yourself. 
I am very sorry if the intiraacy between 
Mr. Grey and your daughter annoys you, 
but for my part, I think him a very good- 
looking, gentleman-like, pleasant young 

" Oh, but that is not all yet, for Mr. 
Lushington, not content with thwarting all 
my plans for my nice little quiet party to- 
day (for I have asked Lord Parnell to meet 
you), has gone and invited Mr. Watson 
and his son, whom you saw at Eome, you 
know, (such a cub !) to dine in Stanhope- 
street also, and I am sure it will be very 
annoying to you and Lord Eainsforth ! 
Such company !" 

" Oh, pray don't worry yourself at all 
about the matter, dear Mrs. Lushington; 
once in a way, it really don't signify. In- 
deed it is very diverting, seeing people 
belonging to quite another sphere from 
oneself. I dare say I shall be vastly 
amused, and I will prepare Lord Eains- 
forth for what he is to encoimter." 


"Well, that will be so kind of you," 
said Mrs. LusMngton, tenderly pressing 
her friend's right honourable hand. " But 
— but still — Lord Parnell ! What am I to 
do about him ? there is no time to put him 
off, as I can't say we are all ill or dead, if 
you and Lord Eainsforth come. What will 
he say? What wiU he think?" 

" Oh !" exclaimed Lady Eainsforth, 
"Lord Parnell is so — so amiable." She 
added, after a moment's reflection, " I dare 
say he will not think anything about it ;" 
("or indeed about anything else," she 
added to herself). 

" Yes, he is a very steady, quiet, modest 
young man," said Mrs. Lushington ; " but 
I dare say, he has a great deal in him, 
notwithstanding he is so quiet." 

" Oh, I dare say !" repeated Lady 
Eainsforth, perceiving the drift of Mrs. 
Lushington's commendation, " he is indeed 
a very quiet young man !" 

"Yes," continued Mrs. Lushington, 
" and he has, as I know from his sister. 


Lady Emily Maxwell, taken sucli a fancy 
to Lucy ! and — and that would be such a 
good tiling for lier, now, poor girl, in lier 
situation ! Both brothers gone, and she 
left in a manner so unprotected ! And as 
I, of course, can't live for ever," — and Mrs. 
Lushington sighed most pathetically over 
her own possible mortahty — " it would be 
such a comfort to me to leave my dear girl 
in such good hands !" 

" Yes ; and with an earl's coronet on 
her head," thought Lady Eaiosforth ; but 
of course she kept her thoughts to herself, 
merely applauding Mrs. Lushington for 
her great prudence in selecting so excellent 
a young man as her son-in-law — so quiet 
and unpresuming. The friends then 
parted, Lady Eainsforth promising to be 
punctual at half-past seven, for their 
" nice little family party ;" and Mrs. 
Lushington somewhat relieved in mind, 
in consequence of having poured out all 
her distresses into so sympathising and 
friendly an ear, returned home to give some 

VOL. I. T 


especial directions to her housekeeper 
about cakes and ices for the dessert. 

The dinner-hour arrived, and so did the 
guests who were to partake of the enter- 
tainment ; and when Mr. Watson, his son, 
and Eustace, were ushered into the draw- 
ing-room. Lord Parnell was abeady reclin- 
ing at his ease in the arm-chair by the fire, 
Mrs. Lushington making the agreeable to 
him close at his elbow, and Lady Eains- 
forth and Lucy on a couch opposite. 

Mrs. Lushington's reception of the 
Watsons, pere et fiis, was dignified; for 
intimate as she was with the former at 
Elsmere, it did not suit her to be so at 
that moment in Stanhope-street. As for 
Eustace, a distant, cold bow of the head 
was all she vouchsafed him. 

Lady Eainsforth had settled it with 
herself that she would be, that evening, 
condescending and charniing to Mrs. Lush- 
ington's vulgar friends ; not, it is to be 
feared, on any principle of Christian 
charity and humility, but rather in order 


to show her great superiority, which was 
not to be any way affected by coUision 
with what was inferior ; whereby she had 
the satisfaction of giving" a sort of side- 
blow to her dear friend, Mrs. Lushington. 
She had also another object in view that 
evening, namely, of thwarting and plagu- 
ing that same dear friend as much as she 
could, by especially protecting Eustace 
Grrey, and endeavouring as much as pos- 
sible, by her manoeuvres, to throw him 
and Lucy together. Accordingly, on liis 
arrival with the Watsons, she welcomed 
him in a most easy, famihar, protecting 
manner, acknowledging him as an old 
Eoman acquaintance, delighted to see him 
again looking so well, &c., &c. Eustace 
was not quite prepared for such a flatter- 
ing reception (not knowing the dessous des 
cartes), and it almost emboldened him to 
take possession of the vacant place on the 
couch by Lucy ; but chancing to catch a 
glance of his aunt's eye fixed upon him, 
and recalling her chilling reception of him, 

T 2 


he thought it better to deny himself the 
gratification, and gradually retreated to- 
ward the end of the room, where gentlemen 
are somehow apt to congregate if dinner 
is tardy in being announced. Ned was 
among those thus drawn up, and giving 
Eustace a nudge, as he winked his eye 
towards Lord ParneU in his place d'hon- 
neur — '' There, I told you so. I really 
should advise you to look sharp, or depend 
upon it the coronet will carry the day. But 
my I what a shabby-looking thing it is, for 
a lord ! I really should advise his lordship 
never to go about without his earl's balls 
being firmly tacked to his head, for fear 
he should be mistaken for the second 

At this moment the door was tlu-ov-m 
open by the butler announcing dinner ; 
and Mr^ Lushington and Lady Eains- 
forth proceeded down stairs together in 
due form. 

''Come, Lord Eainsforth," said Mrs. 
Juu^^migioii, playfully taking hold of his 


lordship's arm, " you shall escort me, and 
we will leave the young people to take 
care of themselves, and follow as they 
please," saying which, she looked back, 
and gave a little sly nod to Lord Parnell, 
who, having by this time discovered that 
the business of the moment was to go to 
dinner, languidly rose from his fauteuil, 
and without saying a word, offered his 
arm to Lucy as a thing of course, and 
the three remaining gentlemen then fol- 

Lord Parnell was (unfortunately for 
him) most peculiarly disgracie de la Na- 
ture (as Ned Watson had remarked) ; nor 
had she (Nature) in any way made up to 
him in mental quahfications for his defi- 
ciencies in personal attractions. He had 
just sufficient acuteness to be aware that 
" his face would never make his fortune " 
with the fair sex, so that there was no- 
thing left for him but to take up the 
profession of finery and dandyism — one, 
fortunately for society, now exploded, 


being fairly put out of countenance by that 
of miKtary fame ; so that not even mous- 
taches, favourites, or even the Newgate 
frill, can bestow upon any one a fictitious 
consequence without some real merit to 
enhance their value. It was entirely at 
the suggestion of his sister Lady Emily 
Maxwell, that Lord Parnell had ever 
turned his thoughts towards the banker's 
daughter. And supposing his coronet 
w^ould do the business for him without 
any particular trouble on his part, he 
allovjed himself to be made love to by 
Mrs. Lushington, concluding " all the rest 
would follow of course.'' As to making 
the agreeable, that, indeed, would rather 
have puzzled poor Lord Parnell, even 
with the best intentions. He had, in 
consequence of Mrs. Lushington's ma- 
noeuvres, this day taken Lucy to dinner, 
and was therefore, of course, seated by 
her ; but what more to do, he really did 
not know, it being no longer the fashion 
for gentlemen to ask ladies to drink wine 


— the only attention wliich suggested 
itself to his lordship's mind. 

By the time Mr. Watson, [N'ed, and 
Eustace entered the dining-room, Mrs. 
Lushington was abeady seated in her 
place, Lords Eainsforth on her right and 
Parnell on her left, Lucy being, of course, 
next the latter. 

"Mr. Watson! Mr. Watson!" cried 
Mrs. Lushington, from the upper end of 
the dinner-table, as he and his two com- 
panions entered the room ; " come up 
here by Lucy : you have not met for so 
long a time, you must have a great deal 
to say to each other." 

Mr. AYatson, however, did not^ or would 
not hear Mrs. Lushington's commands, 
and persisted in making for the opposite 
side of the table, where there was a vacant 
place between Lord and Lady Eainsforth. 
Thus thwarted in her plans, Mrs. Lushing- 
ton became every minute more and more 
excited, and redder and redder, for she fore- 
saw that the very thing she particularly 


wished to avoid was about to take place 
(namely, Eustace getting next to Lucy). 
Again slie renewed her vociferations — 
" Mr. "Watson ! Mr. Watson ! come on 
this side — up here !" until at length Ned, 
although rather surprised at the unlooked- 
for proposed distinction, thinking now it 
could only be himself that Mrs. Lushing- 
ton was addressing, boldly moved forward, 
and casting a glorieux look at his friend 
Eustace, as he brushed past him, at once 
seated himself by Lucy, by which means 
— there being only one remaining place 
vacant — (that between Ned and Mr. Lush- 
ington) — Eustace had no choice but to 
take possession of it. Poor Mr. Watson, 
who had, in the kindness of his heart, 
pm-posely turned a deaf ear to Mrs. Lush- 
ington's commands, in order that Eustace 
should get by Lucy (for he had long 
since discovered liis young friend's secret), 
looked things unutterable across the table 
at poor Ned ; but it was too late now to 
repau' his blunder, for all were fixed in 


tlieir places, and the business part of 
dinner had actually begun. 

During all these proceedings, Lucv had 
never once looked up from the plate before 
her, the pattern of which she seemed to be 
still Examining, as if she had never seen it 
before; while Ned, somewhat elated by 
his unlooked-for distinction, and thinking 
it incumbent upon him, in consequence, 
to make the agreeable to the young lady, 
whom he fancied himself to be thus espe- 
cially called upon to entertain, imme- 
diately addressed Lucy. 

" Well, Miss Lushington, which do 
you like best, London or Eome ?" 

" Indeed, they are so different," rephed 
Lucy, rather disposed to laugh at so abrupt 
and widely -comprehensive a question, " it 
is difficult to say ; the two places are so 
totally unhke. But," she added, as if in 
reply to her own thoughts, rather than 
Ned's inquuy, " / was ve?'^ happy at 

" Well, for my part," continued Ned, 


" I can't find out what there is at Eome 
to make such a fuss about ; it seemed to 
me to be the dullest of all places. Doesn't 
your lordship agree with me ?" he added, 
addressing Lord Parnell, who never having 
yet uttered a word, Ned, in his zeal to be 
agreeable, thought it his duty to draw 

Lord Parnell, thus addressed by name, 
looked up, staring stedfastly at Ned for a 
minute, as if wondering what genus of 
the biped part of creation he might be- 
long to ; and then, without vouchsafing 
him any answer, turned to Lucy, saying 
in a sleepy sort of drawling voice, '' I 
believe it was at Eome you made ac- 
quaintance with my sister Emily. It 
was the fashion, a year or two ago, to go 
to Eome ; but it is gone by now, I think, 
and I am glad of it, for it would be a 
deuced bore to go so far to see I am sure 
I don't very well know what." 

" I quite agree with yom' lordship," 
again put in Ned ; " but I thought it 


was tlie right tiling for such persons as 
you to go to Eome to finish your educa- 

Again Lord Parnell stared at N'ed, with- 
out vouchsafing him any answer whatever ; 
but nothing daunted, Ned went on — 

'' For my part, I would not give a far- 
thing for any place without a playhouse, 
or Astley's, or something of that sort, 
however many churches there may be — 
and there are certainly plenty of them at 
Rome, that one must own ; I can't con- 
ceive how they find people to go to them 

Still Lord Parnell took no notice what- 
ever of poor Ned's observations, nor, in- 
deed, of anything else ; but suddenly 
addressing Lucy, as if at last he had 
thought of something to say to her — " I 
suppose Almacks will now be soon be- 
ginning; and certainly we need some- 
thing, it is so horribly duU now in 
London. Of course you go to Almacks ?" 

" I believe mamma has appUed for a sub- 


scription," said she ; " and I hope we shall 
succeed, for they are most delightful balls." 

'' Yes, they would be well enough 
if it was not for the dancing ; but dancing 
is such a bore !" 

" AYeU, I quite agree with your lord- 
ship," said Xed, bursting into a loud 
laugh ; "it is, indeed, a ' bore ,•' that is to 
say, these new-fashioned dances, those 
horrid quadiilles ; for as for a good, ho- 
nest country-dance, there can't be better 
fim ; but I really had rather be drawn and 
quartered than go tlirough that horrible 
Cavalier seul in a quadrille — not having 
an idea what to do with my arms and 
legs, first going forward, and then back- 
ward, for no reason whatever, and feeling 
like a fool all the time. Don't you un- 
derstand what I mean, my lord ? Don't 
you always feel like a fool when you are 
' Cavalier seul ?' " 

Lord Parnell cast at poor Xed a look of 
the most ineffable contempt and disgust, 
without vouchsafing a word in reply, and 


the indefatigable Ned continued : "As 
you don't seem to care for balls, perhaps 
theatres may be your favourite amuse- 
ment, and I must say they are capital 
fun ;" and, stretching still' further across 
Lucy, to address Lord Parnell, hoping 
he had at last hit upon the right topic to 
engage his attention, — " Of course, your 
lordship has seen the new farce at the 
Adelphi, ' The Smart Repartee.' Is it 
not capital?'' 

Thus again personally applied to. Lord 
Parnell was obliged, at last, to make some 
answer, and in an angry tone said, " I 
don't know anything about it. I hate 
plays — too much trouble. I never go to 
the play." 

" Dear me, how^ odd !" said Ned, vAi\\ 
actually a sigh at the degeneracy of taste in 
the peerage. " ^^Hi}^, I would go to the play 
every night if I could ; and this farce beats 
everything I ever saw. I wanted Grrey 
to go there with me this evening, for it is 
acted to-night ; but he, too, says he never 


goes to theatres, like your lordship ; but 
his reason, I do believe, is that he thinks it 
wrong. Such a strange idea ! But, between 
you and I, Miss Lushington, our friend 
Grey, though a capital fellow, is full of all 
sorts of queer notions about what is right 
and wTong. For my part, I can't see if 
one pays one's money honestly at the door, 
and one don't join in any row in the pit 
(which, certainly, is not very gentle- 
manlike), what harm one can do by going 
to the play. But do, pray, go and see 
this farce, my lord ; you will be delighted. 
There is a new actor come out in it, per- 
fectly inimitable ! and w^lien, on his quar- 
relling with the hair-dresser (in his part, 
I mean, of course), he gives him a slap on 
the face, the whole house was in a roar of 
laughter. The galleries, indeed, wanted 
to encore it, and there Avas a famous row 
for some time, and I clapped my hands 
till they tingled again ; but, at last, the 
manager himself came forward, and said 
that he was afraid, if the slap in the face 


was repeated, it would quite spoil its 
effect ; so, with that apology, all were 
satisfied, and we tlien all applauded tlie 
manager ; but, for my part, I must ot\ti, 
I was quite disappointed." 

Eustace had caught the sound of his 
own name, when his friend Ned had dis- 
cant^d on his pecuHar notions of right 
and wrong; but Mr. Lushington at that 
moment inqmring of him at what hour 
he left London next day, he heard no 
more ; and Xed, dm-ing the whole of the 
time, had tm-ned himself so entirely to- 
wards Lucy and Lord Parnell, with his 
back to Eustace, that he was entirely cut 
off from all possibility of joining in their 
conversation, and sat silent, and ab- 
sorbed in his own thoughts ; for his uncle 
scarcely spoke either to him or Lady Eains- 
forth, who was on the other side, and she, 
in pursuance of her previous intention of 
being, that evening, charming to Mrs. 
Lushington's guests, devoted herself en- 
tu'ely to Mr. Watson, vdth whom she 


never ceased joking about " Three per 
Cent. Consols.'' 

Wliat poor Eustace's thoughts were, as 
he thus sat, absent and absorbed, he per- 
haps could hardly have been able to tell 
himself, they were so contradictory, so 
perplexing. Why had his uncle himself 
proposed his coming now to Stanhope- 
street ? Why had he received him so 
kindly? Why did he invite him that 
day to his house, after having so plainly 
and so decidedly forbid his entering it ? 
Why was all this? except that he con- 
sidered all danger was now over with 
regard to Lucy, she being about to be 
united to another. — But Lucy marry 
Lord Parnell ! — that could not be ! And 
Eustace actually felt the colour rising to 
his face in indignation at the bare idea of 
such a possibility. 

Dinner, dessert, all was, at last, over, 
and the ladies went up-stairs to the draw- 
ing-room, where they were, before long, 
joined by Lord Parnell, he having evi- 


dently left tlie dining-room in an extremely 
bad humour; for Ned's easy vulgarity 
had greatly offended his lordship, and alto- / 

gether he felt as if his four balls had not .-^^</->«- 
been treated with the respect due to them. 
Without, therefore, uttering a word to 
any one he took the offered coffee which 
the servant was at that moment carrying 
about; then walked straight up to the 
fire-place (devoting some minutes to the 
contemplation of himself in the mirror 
over the mantelpiece, running his fingers 
through his hair, and adjusting the cor- 
ners of his shirt collar), and being, at last, 
apparently satisfied with his appearance, 
he, with the ^4ew, probably, of punishing 
the ladies for the want of respect shown 
him by the gentlemen in the dining-room 
(for Mr. Lushington had never even 
spoken to him), he took up the news- 
paper, and retreated with it into the arm- 
chair in a regular pet ; for he had not 
altogether been made love to as much as 
he expected, and he had no idea of sub- 

VOL. I. D 


mitting to such careless treatment, when 
condescending to take notice of a banker's 
daughter. (The girl herself was well 
enough, but her friends were really not to 
be home.) Mrs. Lushmgton at once saw 
something had gone wrong, and she did 
all she could to coax his lordship into good 
humour by again placing herself at his 
elbow ; but it would not do — Lord Parnell 
was mortally offended at something or with 
somebody, and persisted in sulkily study- 
ing the news of the day. Before very 
long, the rest of the gentlemen made their 
appearance, all but Ned "Watson, he 
having (as he told Eustace he intended 
doing) "shpped off" to liis dear Adelphi, 
in hopes of being in time for " the slap in 
the facer "for," he added, " reaUy that 
Lord Parnell is much too slow a coach 
for me, and I think I had better take 
myself off, not to make you jealous, my 
good friend." 

On her return to the drawing-room, 
Lady Eainsforth had again placed lierself 


-on the same couch, and again bade Lucy sit 
by her, and as soon as Mr. Watson made his 
appearance, she called to him to take the 
arm-chair on the other side, as she wanted, 
she said, to hear a little more about the 
Three per Cent. Consols, '' heing particu- 
larly/ interested in them;" by which ma- 
noeuvre the place next Lucy, at the 
further end of the couch, was again unoc- 
cupied, and a look from her encouraging 
Eustace to venture, he at once took 
possession of it, for which arrange- 
ment he had to thank Lady Eainsforth's 
amiable determination to torment and 
annoy her dear friend Mrs. Lushington, 
by throwing Lucy and Eustace as much 
as possible together. 

Lucy welcomed Eustace to her side, with 
one of her kindest smiles, evidently no way 
regretting either of her other two dinner 

" Did I hear you say to papa, that you 
were going away again early to-morrow ? 
Can't you stay longer ?" 

u 2 


" No, I must be back, you know, for 
Sunday's duty." 

" And will you not be able to return 
here soon again ? I liave scarcely seen 
you, and it seems as if I bad so much to 
say to you, and to ask of you, and we are 
really now such strangers I so unlike for- 
mer days at Elsmere, tbose bappy days ! 

" Is it a pleasant place where you are 
now living ?" 

" Oh, as to pleasant, I don't know 
exactly ; it is a quiet little country village 
— pretty enough country about." 

'' Have you pleasant neighbours ? good 
society ?" 

" I really know nothing about the 
neighbours or the society," said Eustace. 
" Of course, there is a squire of the 
parish, but beyond seeing the top of his 
bald head in his pew at church, I know 
nothing about liim. I am only assistant- 
curate, so below his notice," he added, 

" Sm-ely, it must be very dull," re- 


marked Lucy, after a moment's pause, 
" li\'ing so alone, and in such a place ?" 

" I have not tiiiu to be dull — I have so 
much to do." 

" Eeally ! what sort of things do you 

" Oh, I can hardly tell, and my occupa- 
tions would not, perhaps, strike you as 
very amusing in their relation : looking 
aft-er the schools, visiting my sick or sorry 
parishioners, writing my sermons, and all 
that sort of thing." 

" Well, I can't say all that does sound 

particularly agreeable or diverting ; and 

do you never do anj'tliing else ? Do you 

actually never dine out, or see any one 

but your sick neighbours ?" 

" No, I cannot say I do." 

Lucy made no immediate reply, and 

appeared ruminating on Eustace's account 

of his life and occupations. At length, 

with a sigh, she said, " It must be very 

dull indeed ! I don't wonder now you look 

so grave. But is that sort of life al- 


ways to continue ?" she inquii*ed, rather 
anxiously. " I had no idea it was so 
melancholy and stupid a thing being a 

" 'No, I shall not continue long where I 
am at present ; it is only a temporary 
arrangement, till I take priests' orders ; 
what will then happen, I don't know." 

The " grei/ old church steeple " at 
Elsmere at that moment started up un- 
bidden before the eyes of Eustace, and he 
coloured. Whether the same thought 
had crossed Lucy's mind also, he could 
not tell; but she was silent, and pre- 
occupied for a minute or two, and then 
again looking earnestly at him, " Is there 
any chance of your making us a visit at 
Elsm.ere at Christmas, as in former days ? 
You used always to come to us then, you 
know— those happy former days ! All is 
so changed now, you can have no idea how 
much changed ! I used to think Elsmere 
such a bright, cheerful, pretty place ; and 
now I am sure I should like to think I 


was never to see it ao^ain ! All tlie rooms 
SO empty — the house so quiet, and some- 
how, now, I can't care even for my garden ! 
and the hours we used, you and I, to labour 
in it. But that is, I suppose, because I 
am gro^ni old ! And as for the church 
and chm'chyard, which you know we used 
to admire so much, I would not now go 
into it alone for the whole world — I am 
grown so terribly nervous ! It was that 
which made me behave so ridiculously 
yesterday. I never heard the servant 
open the door and name you ; and when, 
on a sudden, I turned round and saw your 
figure and your face (certainly more like a 
ghost's than anything alive), I really 
thought I beheld an apparition. So silly ! 
but I dare say it is because I am so much 
alone, and think and think, till all sorts 
of foolish fancies come into my head. 
And then poor papa ! he really makes me 
miserable ! He has never recovered 
Frederick's death ; and no wonder, it was 
so dreadful ! And he does look so 


wretched ! If you could come to us at 
Christmas, it would really be a charity — a 
something, too, to look to. Is it quite im- 
possible ?" Still no answer from Eustace, 
and Lucy continued (betraying her own 
thoughts, which were evidently bent on 
discovering the footing upon which 
Eustace and his uncle now were), " I am 
sure papa seems very glad to see you 
again, his manner to you is just what it 
ever was." Again no reply, and Lucy 
turned hastily towards Eustace, to discover 
the cause of his silence. But she as 
hastily again turned away, for his coun- 
tenance betrayed evident marks of the 
most painful emotion ; his face was as 
deadly pale as when she had been startled 
by it the previous day, and the paper he 
was pretending to be reading shook in his 

During aU this time, Mrs. Lushington's 
eyes had been riveted upon Lucy and her 
companion on the couch. Nothing had 
escaped her, and she had not heard two 


words of Lord Eainsfortli's wearisome 
prose for the last half-liour, in lier anxiety 
to devise some means for putting an end 
to the cousins' evidently interesting com- 
munications. Lord Parnell was, as before, 
studying the newspapers, and Lady Eains- 
forth still in close confab with Mr. Watson. 
What could she do to make a stir, and get 
Eustace away from the couch ? So stupid 
of Lady Eainsforth, and after all that she 
liad said to her that morning ! Every 
minute poor LLrs. Lushington's state of 
worry and fidget increased, until, to her 
inexpressible relief, the door opened, and 
Lady Emily, Mr. Maxwell, and Sir Alex- 
ander Melville were announced. A 
general move (of which Mr. Lushington 
took advantage to make his escape) then 
took place, and Lucy and Eustace both got 
up from the couch. 

" Well, I do believe you are all asleep !" 
exclaimed Lady Emily, whose quick eye 
had in a minute observed that the plan of 
operations arranged by her and Mrs. 


Lusliington for that evening had entirely 
failed. '* Why, Parnell ! what in the 
world are you studying the papers for so 
assiduously ? This is not the time of 
year, jou know, for Newmarket news, nor 
indeed for any other that you care about." 
And then suddenly percei\ang Eustace, 
" Oh, I see how it is," thought she to her- 
self. And with merely a distant inchnation 
of the head, and " I did not know you were 
in town, Mr. Grey. Have you been here 
long ?" Lady Emily, without even waiting 
for an answer, again turned towards her 
brother, addressing him in a low whisper. 
" AVhat, his Holiness Pope Eustace the 
First !" exclaimed Sir Alexander, on hear- 
ing Lady Emily name Eustace ; and 
coming up to him, " Why, where in the 
world do you come from? But I need 
not ask. Erom the skies, of course ; for it 
is so long since I have seen or heard any- 
thing of you, I conclude you must have 
died, and of course been canonized ! But 
since you are again revisiting tliis our 


lower world, tell me what you are doing 
at Oxford ? How are you getting on with 
your tubs and feet-washings ? You basely 
never let me know when that impressive 
Christian ceremony was to take place, and 
I meant most certainly to have attended." 

" Oh, we have not got so far as that 
yet quite," replied Eustace, endeavouring 
to recover his composure, and to assume 
the same flippant tone in order to conceal 
the real state of his nerves and spmts, 
" but we are in a fair way, I think." 

" And how have you been passing your 
time with the big-wigs," continued Sir 
Alexander. '' I believe there is capital 
hunting at Oxford, and I have sometimes 
thought of trj^g to prove my direct 
lineal descent from that old defunct 
bishop, who, I suppose, was a great Xim- 
rod himself (I forget his name), and so 
become a fellow of All Souls', for the sake 
of the hunting. Do you hunt much? 
Oh no, by-the-by, I forgot; you do none 
of those unholy things. I suppose you 


are now, on the contrary, looking out for 
a bishopric, or at least for a dean's shovel 
hat and little black apron; indeed, you 
already look very like the latter — quite 
clerical ! I hope Miss Lushington has, 
with her own fair hands, embroidered for 
you one of those pretty little black reti- 
cules which clergymen have to hold their 
— I don't know what you call them — little 
bibs and tuckers, which you pious parsons 
wear round your throats when you mean 
to be very persuasive. It is a very 
nice little meritorious work for young 
ladies, making these said reverend reti- 
cules ; and they are sold at charitable 
serioits bazaars, and do an incalculable deal 
of good, building churches and parsonage- 
houses, and all sorts of good things. 
Make her work you one for love (of the 
Church) of course ! Well, some of these 
days, if you are not very long-winded, I 
will come and hear you preach. At what 
church do you perform? Anywhere in 
London ?" 


And thus Sir Alexander went on 
in his old style of persiflage and ridicnle ; 
but at that moment, rather to the rehef of 
Eustace, as it gave him time to recover 
from his agitation — for agitated indeed he 
was. All that poor Lucy had said had 
gone to his heart — the description of her 
loneliness, her evident total ignorance of 
her father's feelings and intentions — her 
apparent wish to dive into that mystery 
— his own perplexing uncertainties, and 
being in a manner so tongue-tied by cir- 
cumstances, that he could not demand an 
explanation from ]\Ir. Lushington, or even 
make known to Lucy what he himself did 
know. AU these thoughts distracted him, 
and made him Httle fit for bearing a part 
in the conversation which now took place ; 
a style at all times most uncongenial to 
Eustace's taste and turn of mind, and 
especially so in his present state of spirits. 
But he had not courage to put an end to 
the evening (the last, perhaps, which he 
should ever pass with Lucy) by proposing 


to Mr. Watson to go home, thougli it was 
now far bejond his old friend's habitual 
hour of retiring for the night, and Eustace 
plainly saw that he remained only on his 
account, out of pure benevolence of feeling, 
remembering — how few do so ! — that he 
once was young, and that he too had then 
been in love with a Lucy Lushington ! 

During all tliis time, a sotto voce alter- 
cation had been going on between Lady 
Emily and her brother, she bending down 
over him, so that all that was heard of 
their conversation were the words — '' Non- 
sense — bore — impertinence — can't be at 
the trouble — will do no such thing," ut- 
tered by his lordship, whose countenance 
betrayed most unequivocal signs of ill- 
humour, and at last, after some more vain 
remonstrances on the part of his sister, 
Lord Parnell, suddenly throwing down 
the newspaper, rose from his fauteuil, and 
at once left the room. 

Poor Lady Emily's vexation was very 
evident ; she could not in any way rally 


her spirits, and wlien Lord and Lady 
Eainsforth took leave of Mrs. Lusliington, 
being engaged to an assembly near (to 
her ladj^ship's great professed regret — for 
she had had a ''delightful evening," such a 
pleasant party ! and as for dear Mr. "Wat- 
son, she was perfectly over head and ears 
in love with him) — Lady Emily declared 
her intention of accompanying them ; Sir 
Alexander also took his departure ; and 
there being now no one left but Mr. 
Watson and Eustace, the former imme- 
diately seated himself in Lord Eains- 
forth' s vacated place on the couch by Mrs. 
Lushington : thus leaving Eustace and 
Lucy together on that opposite, to the 
great annoyance of Mrs. Lushington, who, 
contrary to all laws of good breeding, gave 
Mr. Watson various hints, that it was high 
time he should depart also. " She feared 
he must be very th'ed, as she was aware 
he did not often dine out (so kind of him 
to come at all I) — that it was quite a long 
journey to Westminster, and that she 


knew he was an early riser, &c. ;" until, 
at length, so reiterated and unmistakeable 
were these her hints, that Mr. Watson 
thought it incumbent upon him to under- 
stand them. 

When poor Eustace saw him get up 
from his seat, and hold out his hand to 
Mrs. Lushington, bidding her good night, 
aware that the dreadful moment for final 
departure was come, he felt as if the cir- 
culation of the blood through his heart, 
had suddenly stopj)ed altogether. He, 
for an instant, convulsively grasped 
Lucy's hand which lay on the couch 
beside her (the table concealing it from 
the view of others), and then without 
uttering a word, he started up and hurried 
to Mrs. Lushington to take his leave. 

A cold " good night" was all she vouch- 
safed him, without the slightest expressed 
wish of ever seeing him again. 

Eustace felt at that moment as if he 
had lost the power of speech. He merely 
echoed her cold " good night," and with- 


out attempting another word, followed 
Mr. Watson to the door of the room. 
When there, he once more turned, and 
looked at Lucy. Her eyes were fixed 
upon him with a most sorrowful ex- 
pression, for she felt she was bidding 
farewell, and she knew not for how long, 
to the only companion and friend of for- 
mer days ; she had neither brother, sister, 
or connection of any sort, to supply his 
place. Her home at Elsmere had become 
to her one of gloom and solitude. The 
dismal circumstances of the last few 
months had greatly affected her spirits, 
even her health, and the world (as yet, at 
least) had not filled up that blank in her 
existence, of which she had so pathetically 
complained to Eustace. Lucy cast one 
more sad look on her old playfellow, and 
the door closed upon him. 

No one now remained in the drawing- 
room but Lucy and Mrs. Lushington, on 
whose face anger was plainly depicted. 

'' Well, I must say, Lucy," she ex- 

YOL. I. X 


claimed, the minute they were alone, 
" your behaviour this evening has been 
quite abominable, beyond even what I 
should have expected of you, when you 
knew I had asked the Eainsforths and 
Lord Pamell, on purpose to have a plea- 
sant little sociable evening. But, in- 
stead of helping me to entertain them 
(when, heaven knows, my spirits are little 
equal to the exertion), you have done 
nothing the whole time but whisper to 
Eustace Grey. Such manners ! There is 
no use getting you into good society, I 
am sure. I may save myself all that 
trouble ! and really his impertinence, 
taking possession of the couch, is beyond 
even what I should have expected of him, 
as if he was the person to be attended to 
■' — forsooth ! and there was poor Lord 
Parnell actually obliged to take up the 
newspaper in self-defence, ha^ no one 
to speak to. I never knew such man- 
ners ! ** 

" Indeed, mamma, that was not my 


fault. I couldj not go and sit by Lord 
Parnell in the arm-cliair; I suppose he 
preferred the newspaper, for when he 
came up, there were plenty of vacant 
places on the couch and everywhere ; and 
it was Lady Eainsforth, herself, who 
made me sit by her there." 

These were stubborn facts not to be 
denied, so Mrs. Lushington had nothing 
for it but to exclaim — " Stuff and non- 
sense ! However, I shall take care nothing 
of the sort shall ever occur again ; this is 
the last time Mr. Eustace Grey ever 
comes here (with my leave, at least), if 
he can't learn better manners. Eeally 
you are like two children, talking about 
nothing but Elsmere 1 and your garden — 
and such nonsense — for I heard it all. I 
have really no patience with you !" And 
with these words, and casting an angry 
look at poor Lucy, Mrs. Lushington left 
the room. 

Lucy stood for a moment immoveable — 
tears trembling in her eyes — then heaving 


a deep sigh, she lit the becl-room candle, 
and went up stairs to her own apartment 
to dream of former happy days at Els- 




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